


I Give You a Wondrous Mirror

by Lomonaaeren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Life Debt, M/M, Multi, Not Epilogue Compliant, Romance, Vows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-18 22:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 44
Words: 189,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4723253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is too busy ten years after the war to help out just one family, but that's exactly what he has to do. And as he hunts their enemy, magic no one understands is hunting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mirrors and Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This was written several years ago, not long after _Deathly Hallows_ came out. It both is and is not epilogue-compliant. While it is a bit tricky to follow, I promise everything is explained by the end of the story. Due to my writing this story before JKR revealed some information in interviews, my characters do not have their epilogue-compliant jobs, and Draco's wife is not Astoria Greengrass.
> 
> Warnings for violence, gore, minor character death, weirdness. Minor ships not mentioned in the tags include past Draco/OMC and Luna/Dean.
> 
> The title is from Walt Whiman’s poem “This Day, O Soul”:
> 
> _This day, O Soul, I give you a wondrous mirror;  
>  Long in the dark, in tarnish and cloud it lay—But the cloud has pass’d, and the tarnish gone;   
> ... Behold, O Soul! it is now a clean and bright mirror,   
> Faithfully showing you all the things of the world._

“Madam White—“  
  
“Call me June, if you must call me anything,” the middle-aged witch snapped, and her fingers beat out a nervous tattoo on the arm of her green chair. It hadn’t escaped Harry’s notice that she kept darting nervous glances at his wand and her own, as if she thought he would raise the one and enchant the other away.  
  
So deep and bitter were the wounds the Ministry had inflicted on the relationship between pure-bloods, or halfbloods, and Muggleborns.  
  
 _Well, I wouldn’t have chosen this job if I wanted an_  easy  _one_ , he thought, and leaned forwards, making sure that he kept eye contact with her at all times. “June,” he said gently. “I promise that the Blood Reparations Department doesn’t want to confiscate your wand as the Ministry did ten years ago. They just want to make sure that you aren’t suffering from want of contact from the wizarding world. If we don’t know where you are, it’s a lot harder to make sure that you get warnings of—“  _Death Eater attacks_ , he almost said, but the Death Eaters were gone. All that remained were those Dark wizards that played at being them. He changed his sentence midway through, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “Any Dark magic that might trouble the wizarding world,” he said. “And the Aurors can’t Apparate into homes that don’t have wards open to receive them.”  
  
“That’s an  _improvement_ , if you ask me,” said Madam White harshly. “I don’t want  _them_  in my house.” She seemed to forget that Harry, himself, had shown her a license with the official Ministry seal on it as she stood up to rant. She was probably in her late fifties, but she moved well for all that, her flyaway hair, which reminded Harry of Mafalda Hopkirk’s, flopping behind her. The parlor in which they sat was small, with just barely enough room for a hearth, a table, and the chairs she and Harry occupied, but she circled the table and strode rapidly back and forth near the hearth, and seemed to make it much larger just with the movement. “Do you know what they did to us? _Do_  you, young man?”  
  
Harry took a deep breath. Sometimes there were people like this whom he simply couldn’t deal with any other way than by exposing his personal pain. “I do,” he said. “I saw it happening.”  
  
Madam White turned around and stared at him. She had blue eyes that had sharpened instead of faded with age, and even though she didn’t wear glasses, her gaze glittered as she stared at him. “Thought you were out gallivanting about the country that year,” she said. “Saving us all from You-Know-Who.”  
  
Harry entertained wistful thoughts of a day, far in the future, when no one in wizarding Britain would be afraid to call Voldemort by his proper name. “I spent a lot of time doing that, but I was also in the Ministry during the Muggleborn trials,” he said quietly. “I saw Dolores Umbridge questioning a Muggleborn woman, taunting her about not being a real witch, claiming she must have stolen her wand from a pure-blood.” He watched Madam White’s hand come down quickly on her pocket again. “And I don’t believe any of it,” he ended firmly. “My own mother was Muggleborn. I helped set up the Blood Reparations Department, to try and strengthen relationships between wizards and witches of all kinds in our world. That’s why I’d like to see you able to accept Ministry protection again, Ma—June. There are fewer pure-blood supremacists than there were, but they  _do_  still exist. I have children. I don’t want them to grow up in that kind of world, where the pure-bloods can strike unseen at people like you, and you won’t have warning because you aren’t in contact with the rest of us.”  
  
Madam White was silent for long moments, her fingers again tapping the pocket that held her wand. Harry kept his hands calmly open in his lap, holding her gaze whenever she was willing to look into his face, hoping she would trust him.  
  
Only once did he look away, when he thought he caught a flash of movement above her hearth. But he quickly realized that a mirror hung there, not a portrait, and it was only trying to show him the same stupid, meaningless things that mirrors always did. He looked away again hastily.  
  
Finally, the Muggleborn witch said in a begrudging tone, “I reckon—you sound sincere. I reckon it couldn’t hurt.”  
  
Harry couldn’t hide his smile as he stood, and not just because she, unlike the last two Muggleborns he had contacted, had agreed to come back into the fold. This was his last assignment for the week, and now that it was done, he could go home to Ginny and the children.   
  
He stood, extending his hand, and she clasped it. Then he drew his wand. She tensed, but Harry only tapped his robe pocket, and a small, shining golden globe rose out of it and hovered in front of Madam White. She examined it in wonder.   
  
“What is this?” she demanded.  
  
 _One of Hermione Granger-Weasley’s creations_ , Harry thought, but of course the name would only have meant something to Madam White if she hadn’t lived among Muggles for the past decade. “This is a device that keeps you in contact with the Ministry,” he explained. “It will deliver news if you ask for it. Simply decide what you’d like to know about and speak the words into the globe; you’ll immediately see any and all newspaper articles with that word in it. That way, you don’t have to have owls flying to your house and scaring the neighbors.”  
  
“The magic about it feels too extensive just for that.” The witch reached up to catch the globe, and nearly dropped it in shock. Harry knew that probably came from the warmth of the thing. It felt alive.   
  
“It also permits the Aurors entrance into your home, but only if they truly think you’re in danger,” Harry said. “And it allows you to communicate with what we’re calling the Orb at the Ministry, if you’d like. You can ask for help faster than an owl flies, or even faster than a Floo call. And if you hear anything about pure-blood supremacists—“ He gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “We’d certainly appreciate hearing it in turn.”  
  
“I suppose you aren’t bad, for one of  _their_  sorts,” Madam White said.  
  
Harry knew what she meant: one of the people who had stayed in the wizarding world, instead of left, and continued to try and repair all the wounds that still lay between pure-bloods, halfbloods, Muggleborns, and the other magical species. He contented himself with bowing and asking if she had any other questions.  
  
She didn’t. Harry was finally free to stride out of her house, locate a side street sleepy with the late summer afternoon, and then Apparate home.  
  
The first thing that happened to him after appearing was a collision. Harry landed with a whoof of expelled air, but laughed aloud when he realized what had caused it: his three-year-old son, James, riding a toy broom. James rolled on top of his father and grinned down at him. He had Ginny’s red hair and brown eyes, and at the moment one was ruffled and the others shining brightly as he contemplated the mess he’d made.  
  
“I made Mummy scream three times today,” he confessed happily.  
  
“Won’t she just be thrilled when you get older?” Harry muttered, not sure if he meant it or not, and hauled James to his shoulders. The broom hovered obediently along behind them as Harry carried his son into the kitchen. James waved patronizingly to his two-year-old brother, Albus, still tethered to the kitchen table with a golden Baby Leash spell. Al stared back mournfully. Harry made a silent vow to find some version of the spell that worked on James. It seemed the boy’s accidental magic was so far concentrated into finding a way around any restraint, and the Baby Leash would only hold for perhaps ten minutes before it broke apart into a fall of golden light.  
  
Harry bent down to hug Al and enjoy, for a long, precious moment, the clutch of small hands at his hair and robes. Then James tried to hit Al over his head, and Harry had to straighten and put James on the other side of the table.  
  
“Oh, thank God you’re home, Harry, they’ve been like this all day,” Ginny said in an exhausted tone, bustling into the kitchen through the far door. She carried baby Lily in her arms. Harry took a quick glance to be sure she was asleep, and then accepted her himself while he leaned over and kissed Ginny. At the same time, he maneuvered adroitly to keep James away from his younger brother, conjuring a series of enchanted singing birds with his wand when his body didn’t provide enough protection for Al. James promptly tried to catch them.  
  
“I thought Molly was helping you?” he asked, dropping into a seat on the far side of the table and letting the sense of  _family_  wash over him. In seconds, he was intensely happy, even though James already needed another diversion and Al’s lip was trembling because he didn’t get to sit on his father’s lap, too. A few taps of the wand solved both problems, giving James a miniature Snitch to chase and Al a seat on his legs next to Lily. Al buried his face against Harry’s shoulder and clung. Harry stroked his hair with his free hand. No matter how much time Al spent around just his mother, he seemed to prefer his father still.  
  
“She was, but then she had to leave because Fleur thought Victoire had dragonpox.” Ginny rolled her eyes, even as she began to set their dinner cooking with a few efficient sweeps of her own wand. “Never mind that they’d practically eradicated the disease, Fleur was  _sure_ , and you know what Fleur’s like when she gets panicky.”  
  
Harry smiled into Al’s hair. Though Ginny and Fleur had learned to tolerate each other, his wife still had no patience for her sister-in-law’s fits of emotion.  
  
Today, though, he thought he had good enough news that it might take Ginny’s mind off the neverending struggles in the Weasley family.   
  
“Hermione’s feeling better,” he said.  
  
It took a moment before Ginny could glance at him, since she was busy directing the salt cellar and a jug of water and a pat of butter into the air all at the same time. Then the importance of the words seemed to strike her, and she turned around to stare.  
  
“Do you mean—“  
  
“I do, actually,” Harry said. “She’s taken off all the time she needs to get over Hugo’s birth, she says. And Ron agrees with her,” he added, before Ginny could say that Hermione had probably overestimated her own readiness. “For a wonder. So she’ll be taking over the Blood Reparations Department work again, and I—“  
  
“Can stay home with the children,” Ginny said, her face lightening. “And—“  
  
“You can go back to work.” Harry smiled at her. “I’m sorry to have left you here with them for so long, but—“  
  
“You have to do the Blood Reparations work when Hermione’s not there, you’re Harry Potter,” Ginny said, in a tone of such complete understanding that the intense happiness washed through Harry again. “And of course you’re good at it, and if I didn’t want children I wouldn’t have had them, but—“ She halted for a moment, then enchanted the dinnerware to continue without her and came around the table to give Harry a very long, very thorough kiss. James and Albus were too busy, one with his hunting, one with his hiding, to notice.  
  
“I can’t wait to go back to playing Quidditch again,” she whispered.  
  
Harry nodded, and stroked her hair. Ginny’s old team, the Montrose Magpies, was still holding open a spot as Seeker for her, but she’d been grounded for nearly a year, first by her pregnancy with Lily and then by the fact that Hermione was recovering from her own unexpectedly difficult labor with Hugo, and so Harry was needed in the field until all hours. To have her future opening up in front of her again was probably like the first discovery of magic.  
  
And now Harry had the time to spend with his children, and Andromeda could start bringing Teddy to visit regularly again, instead of once a week. He was looking forwards to it. Of all the things he did, all the things he was, nothing mattered as much to him as the label of “father.”  
  
“Oh, shite!” Ginny exclaimed abruptly, and whirled around to bat her wand in the direction of the pots and pans, from which a distinct smell of burning had begun to emanate. Harry muffled his laughter against Al, who had gone to sleep clinging to him, and then felt James tug on his sleeve.  
  
“What’s shite, Daddy?” he asked. And then his face became delighted when he saw his mother’s scarlet face. “It’s a  _bad_  word,” he said. “Mummy said a  _bad_  word.”  
  
“You are such an evil influence on them,” Harry taunted his wife, and Levitated James into the air. James squealed; he was the most fearless of Harry’s children, and never minded the game. Harry shifted so he could pick up Lily and Al at the same time, and then stood. “Let’s leave the kitchen while your mother’s cooking.”  
  
He made James bounce, which caused him to shriek with laughter, and Ginny shot him a grateful stare. Harry grinned back. Ten years of marriage, and he still didn’t feel as if he’d been married for that long, or, most of the time, as if he were twenty-eight. He had a much better life than he’d been able to imagine when he was still a child living in the cupboard under the stairs.  
  
If it hadn’t been for the total lack of reflective surfaces in the house, and the way his dreams sometimes included very odd things that had never happened, Harry would probably have called his life perfect. But Ginny understood him so well, and put up with his peculiarities, and so it was very good.  
  
*  
  
 _“You do know what it means when you take a wand from another wizard, Potter?”  
  
Malfoy’s voice, sneering and inhospitable as ever, even when Harry had tracked him down in Malfoy Manor specifically for the sake of returning his wand to him. Harry rolled his eyes to hear it. The idiot was eighteen, or nearly so, and had only changed a bit.  
  
Well, he would have to find his own redemption. From this day forwards, Harry highly doubted that he would ever see Malfoy again.  
  
“Yes, I do,” he said. “I was able to use the wand almost as if it were mine. But I’ve repaired mine now. I don’t need yours.” He held out the length of hawthorn and unicorn hair, amused by the look of shock on his old enemy’s face. “Here. Take it.”  
  
Slowly, as if thinking the wand would turn out to be a Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes prank—and the suddenness of his grief for Fred took Harry off guard—Malfoy reached out and snatched the wand from him. And then he stood holding it as if he couldn’t believe he had it back, and, more than once, staring at Harry.  
  
“Erm,” said Harry, who thought he should leave. No reason to see him ever again, he repeated to himself firmly. “Good-bye.”  
  
And that was where, in the real world, the confrontation with Malfoy_—except it wasn’t even a confrontation, was it? Just a meeting, just something you arranged so you could give him back his wand— _had ended. He’d turned and walked away from the front gates of the Manor, feeling relieved and contented that that was undoubtedly the last time he’d ever see the Slytherin. He felt mingled pity and contempt whenever he considered Malfoy, but it could become anger easily. Malfoy was not exactly the reason Dumbledore was dead, and his involvement in that deed had helped Harry in the end, but he was still too tangled up in memories of pain for Harry to feel relaxed around him.  
  
But in the dream, he didn’t turn and walk away. He simply stepped forwards, and Malfoy gave a small smile, as though to say he hadn’t expected this would happen but didn’t mind that it was happening now.  
  
“It’s not usual to return a mastered wand to its former master,” he whispered into Harry’s ear. “And I think we should do something to make it a little less unusual. You wouldn’t have had to take this from me if we were friends; I could have lent it to you. Will you, then, Potter?” And his hand sneaked under Harry’s hair and lightly caressed the nape of his neck, freezing Harry in place with a sudden charged feeling like the rising of a storm.  
  
“Will I what?” His voice was a croak, but it still overrode the real voice screaming bloody murder in the back of his head.   
  
“Will you be my friend, so I can have lent it to you?”   
  
And Malfoy was so close, and magic roared around them like a wind or a tsunami, and the air shook as if it were a rippling piece of cloth or a reflection in a tilted mirror—_  
  
Harry opened his eyes and sat up with a loud gasp, fighting to keep from letting his breath rasp further and waking Ginny. He leaned his forehead on his hand and closed his eyes, shuddering. Luckily, Ginny had had a long enough day that she just flopped sleepily on her side and muttered at him a few times.  
  
Harry spent a few moments raking his fingers over his forehead and his scar, a habit of his whenever he was stressed. The scar hadn’t ached for ten years. Voldemort really was gone.  
  
But sometimes it  _burned._  
  
It was doing so now, and so were the words on the back of Harry’s right hand from Umbridge’s Blood Quill, and so was the mark over his heart where the locket had scarred him, and so were the lines on the inside of his arm from Nagini’s fangs. Whenever a dream like this happened, always feeling real and always concerning Malfoy, they simmered like a Muggle stove heating up. Hermione had done research for him, cast spells on him, tried to isolate the scars and make them burn one by one, and lectured him with magical theory that made Harry’s head spin. She’d also hauled him off to specialists at St. Mungo’s.  
  
Nothing. No one knew why they did it, and why the sensations seemed to intensify as time passed instead of subside.  
  
Harry had been careful to avoid Malfoy’s presence for the last decade, and to keep away from reflective surfaces of any kind after the first time he’d looked into a mirror while the scars still burned. He’d stumbled out of bed and into their loo after a dream of Malfoy, breathing hoarsely, and met his own eyes in the mirror.  
  
Ginny had heard him scream, heard the shattering of glass. She was the one to find Harry lying in a puddle of it and bring him to hospital. She had never discussed it with him, but Harry knew she still feared he’d tried to hurt himself.  
  
Harry, meanwhile, had given up trying to convince her that his magic had shattered the mirror because something had reached out from its surface and tried to pull him _through_.  
  
This was an old problem now, one he could deal with. He slowly calmed his breathing and reassured himself that there were no mirrors in the house, and no standing pools of water, and no highly polished glass or silver. Ginny was not quite the housekeeper her mother had been, and was happy enough to let their cups and cutlery get a little tarnished.  
  
 _All done now_ , Harry thought, as the burn in his scars began to fade.  _It’s all right._  
  
And then he heard an owl tapping on the window.   
  
And the marks from Nagini’s fangs seemed to explode into flame.  
  
Harry stood, and stumbled to the window, opening it with his left hand. The owl circled his head once, dropped a letter at his feet, and then flew out again before he could ask if it needed a reply.  
  
Harry picked up the letter, fumbled for his glasses, and then left the bedroom so that the light from his wand wouldn’t disturb Ginny. His fingers became nerveless, though, and not just because of the steady burning from the fang marks, when he recognized the seal on the outside of the letter. It was the Malfoy coat of arms, the same one he had seen clinging to the iron gates the day he’d gone to the Manor to give Draco his wand back.  
  
“Oh, no,” he whispered.  
  
But he had no choice save to open the letter, since he didn’t know why one of that family would choose to contact him after all this time.  
  
The writing inside was neat and spiky—not Draco’s handwriting, which he still vaguely remembered, but a woman’s.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Potter:  
  
I am certain that you never thought I would have occasion to call upon you, but I do. During the war with the Dark Lord, I saved your life by concealing from Him that you still lived after his Killing Curse. That means that you owe me a life-debt. I am calling it in now.   
  
Strange and threatening letters have arrived at my family’s home, all of them promising horrific harm to us. Someone has tried to steal our family heirlooms and to freeze our Gringotts vaults. Blood magic has been worked against us, and has been stopped only by the Manor’s wards, so that we are virtually prisoners in our own home.  
  
And now someone has accused Draco of a murder he did not commit. A young Mudblood witch has died. You know as well as I do, given your—work—what this could mean, if the right elements of the Ministry use the news to stir up anti-pure-blood sentiment. The balance between our kind and yours is too fragile right now for such a disruption.  
  
I formally request and require that you discover who has been threatening my family and stop them from doing so. At such time, I will consider your life-debt fulfilled.  
  
Yours,   
Narcissa Malfoy._  
  
The scar on the inside of his arm burned like a firework. Harry was sure that, had he been near a mirror at the moment, shadows would have stirred inside it, showing him a hundred thousand things that could not be true.  
  
He closed his eyes.  
  
Then he stood and went towards his study, where he stored most of the books he had inherited from Sirius and had found useful enough to keep. He needed to know what he could about life-debts and fair means of collecting them. He would owl Hermione in the morning to learn more, but since it was the middle of the night, he’d let her sleep.  
  
To get to the study, he had to pass three bedrooms. He paused in the doorway of each one to gaze at his children. James snuggled so far under the covers that only his bushy red hair showed above them. Al slept in a fetal position, hands clenched as if fighting an unseen enemy. Lily in her cot was softly snoring; she had been the calmest of their three children, sleeping through the night at only two months of age.  
  
His love for them was a fire that burned steadily in him, stronger than the spitting pain in his arm. By the time he came to the study, he was resigned to facing whatever came of this unexpected summons by the Malfoys, for the sake of stabilizing the wizarding world so that his children could have a more peaceful life in it than he’d had.  
  
And for the sake of keeping whatever magic hunted him far, far away from them.  
  
 _I won’t let you get away with whatever you think you’re going to_ , he told the pain in his scars and the shadows in the mirrors.  _I won’t._


	2. The Scarred Soul

Draco winced as a blinding headache exploded behind his eyes. He put down the book he’d been trying to read—it had something to do with the history of pure-blood families who had died out in the nineteenth century, but he’d been staring at the same page for an hour and absorbed none of it—and walked into the corridor. The headache was the result of an alarm ward, but the last thing he wanted to do was give his wife the sense that he considered her actually  _important_.   
  
Moving at a leisurely pace, he finally halted near the door of the nursery and peered into it. Scorpius was sleeping, his face turned into his pillow and one hand flexing open and shut around the small animated dragon that was his current favorite toy. Draco’s wife stood silent above him, staring. The thick net of wards cast over the bed ensured that she couldn’t touch the boy, so looking was all that was left to her.  
  
“Still hoping that I’ll change my mind and trust you again someday?” Draco drawled, stepping into the room. His steps sank so deeply into the carpet that he wasn’t worried about waking Scorpius, and he kept his voice low. “Coming here and showing how badly you want to snatch him up will not help that effort.”  
  
Marian whirled around and stared at him in turn, and then a dark scowl took over from the blankness on her features. She said nothing, though, just folded her arms and moved a few steps away from Scorpius. Draco’s headache subsided, and he took her place, partially because he really wanted to see his son and partially because he wanted Marian to take note of the fact that  _he_  could reach through the wards and feel soft skin and hair under his fingers.  
  
“I don’t understand how you ever expect me to trust you again,” he murmured. “If you wanted continued access to Scorpius, you should not have tried to abduct him.”  
  
“I wasn’t  _abducting_  him,” Marian said in a clenched voice, staring at the far wall. “I was trying to take him away from this loveless hulk of a place, to one where he could be reared with all the care and attention he deserves.”  
  
Draco shuddered delicately. Marian’s surname before they married had been MacFusty, and she’d come from the clan of Dragon-Keepers that tended the Hebridean Blacks on their native islands. That clumsy, graceless heritage still showed in the burns on the left side of her face, and her ragged black hair, and her accented English. Draco would have wondered why either of them had married the other, but he knew the answers. Marian had wanted to escape the weather in the northern islands and the heavy work of Dragon-Keeping that involved all the members of her family, no matter their age, and he had wanted a pure-blood wife who wouldn’t care too much about her standing in southern English society.   
  
And they might have got on well together, politely ignoring each other’s peccadilloes, but Marian had committed far more than a peccadillo when she’d tried to snatch Scorpius and flee to the Hebrides a year-and-a-half ago. Draco had never assumed he’d have to protect his son against his wife. If not for the vigilance of a house-elf, he might have lost the only person he’d ever loved besides his parents.  
  
“We’ve discussed this, Marian,” he said. “And we won’t come to any satisfactory resolution as long as you insist on being hysterical.”  
  
She glared at him. If Draco did not have the Malfoy name and pride to maintain, he might have considered her formidable. The burns didn’t make her pretty, by any means, but they lent an intimidation factor to her face in the way that scars could. “I’m not being hysterical when I wish to protect  _my son_ ,” she said. “And need I remind you what the catalyst for my running was? You used magic on a  _baby_. Someone five months old, who might have died when—“  
  
“And it didn’t hurt him, did it?” Draco asked. He had to concentrate to quell his fury and despair. Sometimes he thought he would do nothing more than remain in Malfoy Manor and have these pointless arguments with Marian forever. The recent confinement because of the murder accusations did nothing to help. “He survived intact, and he looks like a proper Malfoy heir now. No son of  _mine_  was going to have dark hair.”  
  
His wife didn’t bother responding, but simply turned her head and stalked out of the room. Draco let out a small sigh of relief, which he wouldn’t have dared if his mother had been there to hear it. Narcissa didn’t understand Draco’s feelings towards his wife. She had been the one to choose the name Scorpius for the baby, over Marian’s strong protests, and to suggest the magic that had made Scorpius’s black hair and uncertainly-colored eyes turn the Malfoy blond and gray.  
  
She didn’t understand because she wasn’t  _bonded_  to the woman, Draco thought mutinously. It made all the difference in the world when someone had spoken the words “bonded for life” over you, and so the magic of one’s wedding vows was yanking and pulling, trying to force the reluctant spouses back together.   
  
Draco had long known that he preferred to sleep with men. And yet he still felt uncomfortable each time he visited a male lover, and having one in the Manor was impossible. It wasn’t anything so simple as a craving for Marian; he could have dealt with that, since he had learned to ignore and devalue so much of what  _he_  desired in the name of appearances in the past ten years. Instead, itching built across his skin, until he couldn’t help scratching it and looking no better than a dog. And no one else knew how to twist the knife in his soul like Marian did.  
  
 _Although_ , Draco had to admit, as he stroked his son’s hair and watched Scorpius’s lips part in a baby pout,  _I don’t think that’s the bond. She’s just the only one who both knows me well enough to hurt me and is cruel enough to do so_.   
  
He crouched down so that he could touch Scorpius from a more comfortable position, and let loose a gusty sigh. Everything was to have been a success, just a short time ago. His father had earned a seven further years in Azkaban, but he might have been out soon. Draco was to marry and have an heir, and gradually secure the Malfoy legacy and work his family back into society. His mother had made all  _sorts_  of grand plans, dreaming up a dozen different careers for Draco before breakfast. She was sure he could be Minister by the time he was fifty, at the very latest, and that was the idea she returned to most frequently.  
  
And then one of the pure-blood supremacy groups had decided that a free Lucius Malfoy would make for a fine iconic name to put on their calling cards, and a frightened Ministry had determined that his freedom wasn’t a priority after all. And Draco’s wife had turned out to be someone who just couldn’t be contented with escape from her horrendous family; she had demanded a hand in raising her child, and then thrown fits when she didn’t get her way. And nothing Draco tried seemed to come to fruition. There were children’s legends about careless wizards who turned objects into gold and silver when they touched them. Draco’s only gift seemed to be turning them to dust.  
  
His melancholy broke when he noticed a gleam of something hard and metallic from the floor. Narrowing his eyes, he called, “Eleeny!”  
  
There was a sharp flash, and a house-elf appeared, bowing from the waist but not speaking aloud. Draco was grateful for that. The high-pitched voice would surely have awakened his son. He jerked his chin towards the gleam, being careful not to look directly at it. “Take that away and destroy it,” he said. “And then search my wife’s quarters, and if she has any other mirrors, relieve her of them.”  
  
The elf bowed again, and vanished once more, taking the small hand-mirror with her. The crack of her departure  _did_  wake Scorpius, but before his boy could do more than loose a moody hiccough, Draco scooped him up and held him against his chest, burying his nose in his hair. It still smelled faintly of magic when he didn’t concentrate on something else, but that wasn’t his fault, was it? The Malfoy heir should  _look_  like a Malfoy. On that, he agreed with his mother. It had been his misfortune to take a dark-haired wife and expect his blood to breed absolutely true, but that was one reason magic existed, to correct the mistakes of nature.  
  
“Daddy?” Scorpius blinked up at him and dropped his objections in favor of snuggling into the warm human arms that contained him. Draco knew he was smiling like a fool, and permitted it. No one else was about to see him, after all, and Scorpius was still too young for Narcissa to complain that such attentions were spoiling him.  
  
“Yes, Scorpius,” he murmured, and carried his son across the room to drop into a chair. The chair immediately deepened its softness and began to rock beneath them, making Draco shift so that he could block any possible contact between his boy’s head and the back of the seat. Scorpius was agreeable to this, and popped a thumb in his mouth to suck on for a few moments. Draco did not think he would ever really call himself happy, not since the war and what he’d learned about himself during it, but this was the closest he came to contentment nowadays. He used his feet to give them an extra little push off the floor whenever the rocking slowed down, but mostly the chair moved by its own magic.  
  
“Why can’t I go outside?” Scorpius asked at last, taking his thumb out of his mouth. “ _Wanna_  go outside.”  
  
“I know,” Draco said, and feathered his fingers through the blond hair again. Was this  _softness_  what his father had felt, when Draco had been the same age? He could no longer scorn Lucius, as he once had, for putting family flesh and blood ahead of family pride. And he hadn’t done much better, had he, given the chance to earn some glory for the Malfoys?  
  
 _Old wounds. I shouldn’t pick at them. Marian does that for me well enough.  
  
“Wanna_,” Scorpius insisted. His gray eyes had tears forming in the corners now, and he tugged at Draco’s shoulder with his free hand.  
  
“I know,” Draco said softly. “It won’t be much longer.” He wasn’t about to explain to a two-year-old that he’d been accused of murder, and so it was dangerous for  _any_  of the Malfoy family to be outside the wards these days. That included Scorpius playing in the gardens or hovering on the back of the larger toy dragon Draco had enchanted for him. “The Aurors will let us out of the house soon.”  
  
Scorpius’s face brightened up at the mention of Aurors; currently, Draco thought, he believed they were the heroes of the wizarding world and that his father was one whenever he wasn’t home to be Daddy. “Good,” he said. “And now, want a story.” His free hand wriggled, and he frowned. “And Kneazle.”  
  
Draco waved his wand and Summoned the dragon Scorpius had slept with, which his son had named Kneazle for some unknown reason. Kneazle animated as soon as he touched Scorpius’s hand, and nuzzled at him, and blew small rings of smoke. Draco settled further back in the chair and asked, “What kind of story do you want?”  
  
Scorpius gave him the superior stare of a two-year-old who can’t believe he has to explain these kinds of things to his parents, and said, “A  _real_  one.”  
  
“Once,” Draco began, “there was a time when your Grandmother Narcissa saved  _everything_. The whole world and all the people in it.”  
  
Scorpius blinked, perhaps at the mere thought of putting his grandma in the same category as Aurors. But he settled easily in for the rest of the story, and though Draco made it simple, he told his son why Harry Potter had reason to owe his mother a life-debt.  
  
Scorpius seemed satisfied with that as a  _real_  story, and went to sleep curled up against him. Draco sat there, holding his son, and feeling far more fear for him than for himself, and hating the fact that that was so.  
  
 _Becoming a parent makes you vulnerable on all sorts of levels. And I don’t even have the glory that should come from successfully facing that vulnerability.  
  
I’m trapped in a loveless marriage I shouldn’t have entered—or at least that I should have entered with a different kind of bonding. I’m a coward, and not ambitious enough to live up to the title of Slytherin let alone the title of Malfoy, and my life as I know it might still get worse because of these accusations. And I’m cursed whenever I look into a mirror or see a picture of Harry Potter._  
  
He closed his eyes and refused to let himself sense anything for a few moments but the warmth against his chest and the faint scent of sour milk in his nostrils.   
  
 _This is all I have._  
  
Self-pity was an old and familiar friend. Draco only wished it did not lacerate him so.  
  
*  
  
Draco halted with one foot just barely across the threshold into the small room—more a study than an eating area—where he and his mother usually dined together. Narcissa had looked up from the table with a faint flush on her face, and she’d started to shove a piece of folded parchment away from her before she forced her fingers to relax. Those were bad signs. She’d certainly done something that he wouldn’t approve of, and it might actually be something that worsened their situation at the moment.  
  
Draco couldn’t think of what that would  _be_ , but he was certain that it existed. A decade of the entire wizarding world conspiring to kick his family while it was down had taught him there was always a lower level to fall to.  
  
He folded his arms, even though the last thing he wanted after a fight with Marian was a fight with his mother. He loved Narcissa, but  _God_ , she irritated him so. She wouldn’t accept that some things—like the old prestige of the Malfoy name and the political machinations which Lucius had been good at but Draco had inherited no talent for—were simply gone. She was always urging Draco to do this or that thing which she thought would result in glory in a few years. And the years would pass, and she would only weave new plans, undaunted.  
  
She made him tired.  
  
“Draco,” she said after a moment. “It’s good to see you. I felt the alarm ward ring a short time ago. Did Marian try to touch Scorpius?”  
  
“She did,” Draco said sharply, stepping away from the doorway with a firm motion, to show her that she couldn’t get around him just by talking about his son. “And Marian left a mirror on the floor, no doubt hoping I’d look into it.”  
  
Narcissa’s hand twitched towards the parchment again, and smoothed out a tick later, but the motion had been enough to tell Draco everything he needed to know. His mother had mentioned it a few days ago, after all, even if it was just as an aside in a conversation about which Mudblood-loving group might have tried to frame Draco.  
  
“You did it?” he asked, feeling a bit dazed. “You really wrote to  _Harry fucking Potter_ , of all people?” His voice had risen into a shout near the end.   
  
“I did,” said Narcissa, lifting her chin. “He owes me a life-debt, and he’s rather good at discovering the truth of mysterious situations, if your tales of your Hogwarts days are true. So—“  
  
“That was  _ten years ago_ , Mother.” Draco was fighting not to close his hands into fists; he had enough pain in his left palm, thanks to the last time a mirror had exploded on him a few weeks ago. The cuts were healing, but slowly. And they had begun to buzz with that strange warmth now, the same kind that infested the  _Sectumsempra_  scars on Draco’s chest whenever he thought about Harry Potter too long, or forgot himself and stared into a mirror. “He’s worked for the Blood Reparations Department since the war. Why would he  _help_  us? He’d rather leave us to twist in the wind and keep trying to save his precious Mudbloods.”  
  
“He’s famous for not doing things like that,” Narcissa said, and it was her turn to sneer. “He could have lied to me about your being in the castle that day—I wouldn’t have known whether he was telling the truth—but he didn’t.”  
  
“That’s a stupid metric to use to judge someone’s behavior,” Draco said sulkily, tucking his stinging hands under his arms. “And I know him better than you do, Mother. I knew him for six years. You knew him for, what, fifteen seconds?”  
  
“More than that,” said Narcissa, leaning back in her chair and giving him that infuriating stare she’d perfected a few years after Lucius went to Azkaban. It said that Narcissa was perfectly in the right and pitied you for being in the wrong, but not enough to let the pity show. It was the major reason that Marian no longer bothered arguing with her mother-in-law. “And the life-debt won’t give him a choice, son, as you once knew before you decided to turn your back on your expensive wizarding education. He hasn’t made an offer to fulfill it in any other way. I can choose my request, and I choose to force him to investigate our troubles. It’s perfect. The Mudbloods see him as a hero, even though he hasn’t done anything significant in a decade. They’ll be on the verge of judging us innocent the moment he joins the hunt.”  
  
Draco made an effort to control his voice and speak very quietly. Any yelling would just convince Narcissa he was behaving irrationally. “You know why I don’t want him here, Mother.” His palms felt half-painful and half-numb now, as if he had gone to sleep with his hands folded beneath him and had just moved them.  
  
“I do,” said Narcissa.  
  
“And?”  
  
“And I think it’s time that you got over this silly fear, Draco,” Narcissa said, standing up with the letter to Potter in her hand. Draco stared at it as if he could make it burst into flames just from his gaze. Of course, it didn’t do what he wanted it to—a minor failure in a life full of them. “The pains you’re experiencing obviously come from the curses that—that Bellatrix cast on you during your time here in the Manor that terrible year.” Her voice had trembled for a moment, but it was strong again now. She dealt better with those memories than Draco did. “Just because you have visions of Potter doesn’t mean that his mere presence here will harm you.”  
  
“You  _say_  that, but you don’t  _know_ ,” Draco muttered fretfully. He knew that he’d already lost the battle.  
  
Narcissa realized it, too. She took a step forwards so that she could pat his cheek. Draco avoided the letter as if it were the Dark Lord’s snake. “I do. Frankly, I think the curses my sister used encouraged obsessive behavior and brooding, and you happened to choose Potter as the object of your brooding. It would explain why you see him in the mirror, and why you feel pain in the scars he inflicted. It explains  _everything_ , Draco. You only want another explanation because you don’t like the one I’m offering you, God knows why, and because all sons want their mothers to be wrong once in a while.”  
  
Draco kept his gaze averted from her face. He was afraid that he would scream if he had to look at her right now. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, and hated the weakness in his voice, hated the fact that he couldn’t come up with enough of an explanation to convince his mother that having Potter come to the Manor was a terrible idea, hated the fact that Narcissa thought she had to be the driving force behind his actions because he couldn’t do anything for himself—  
  
Hated that she was right.  
  
Narcissa kissed him on the cheek. “I have to go to the Owlery and post this,” she said, holding up the hateful letter, “but I’ll return shortly, and I’m sure Eleeny will have something delicious for us to eat, as always.”  
  
Draco nodded, and his mother swept out of the room. Draco sat down at the table and put his hands over his head, trying to calm his breathing.  
  
His mother just didn’t understand. It might sound like the sort of thing any sulky adolescent said to  _her_ , but to him it was real. His life had continued in a holding pattern for a decade because he couldn’t find any true interest outside the Manor, and it was easier to live with what he’d learned about himself during the war—  
  
 _Coward.  
  
Sniveler.  
  
Incapable of killing, incapable of_ fighting back,  _used as a torture instrument by the Dark Lord—_  
  
\--if he could lick his wounds in private.  
  
But the constant images of Harry fucking Potter in any mirror he was so careless as to glance at—the images of Harry fucking Potter holding on to his waist, whispering into his ear, gazing at him with adoring eyes—did not  _help._


	3. The Tension of Bees

_“Do you really think that matters to me?” Malfoy’s voice_ —except that Harry thought of him as Draco in this dream, which was ridiculous, because he’d never done that before except when other members of his family were around and he had to think of Draco by his first name or get lost in the constant stream of Malfoys— _was crisp and haughty, but Harry knew him well enough by now to hear the slight undertone of hurt._  
  
That’s mad, I don’t know him, this is a dream—  
  
 _But the weight fell on his mind like honey, and drew him back into the midst of what he knew couldn’t be real. He was standing in a large ground floor room in Malfoy Manor, with sunlight showering through the windows. Over the year he’d spent here with Draco, it had come to seem more and more like a home, but right now it felt to Harry like the building where Hermione had been tortured.  
  
“I don’t think it’ll work,” he said, pacing back and forth with his eyes on the floor. If they were on the floor, no one could expect him to look into Draco’s face. “We’ve tried, but we still argue all the time, and we can’t just have sex at the end of every argument as if that_ solves  _something.” His hand rose and waved in the air. It was a daring, extravagant gesture, and he hoped it would suffice to make Draco think he was brave, because he still couldn’t look up. “And you hate my friends, and they—dislike you.” He really wasn’t sure about Ron; there might have been hatred there, not least because he rarely got to see Harry now. “So I think it’s best to—just end it.”  
  
He wasn’t aware that Draco had started to stride across the room until a pair of painful, gripping hands caught his shoulders. He looked up with a gasp, and found Draco’s mouth a few inches from his. But Draco didn’t try to kiss him, the way that he usually would to heal any row. Instead, Draco held him there, and struck him with forceful words.  
  
“You’ve never actually accepted that I’m in this as much as you are, have you, Harry? Always thinking I’ll desert you at a moment’s notice, always believing I’ll think more of my friends’ opinions or your friends’ opinions than just_ yours,  _always certain that this is a temporary fling for me or all I get out of it is sex.”  
  
Harry tried nervously to back away, because he had never seen Draco this angry. Draco just held him in place without effort—and normally, Harry was stronger than he was. Harry felt a strange shiver run through him, golden as the sunlight, and stopped trying to move. He just stared, and let Draco’s words fall into his mind like stones into a pool.  
  
“This matters to me just as much as it does to you. I won’t give up on it easily. And neither should_ you.”  
  
 _And his lips came down on Harry’s, and Harry felt, in that moment, a surge of wonder that swiftly turned into a surge of greed. He brought his hands up and linked them together behind Draco’s neck, moaning aloud in what probably sounded like desire, but was more than that. He didn’t just want sex, at the moment, he wanted the life with Draco that he could see gleaming in the distance like buried treasure, wanted it so much that he thought he would die if he didn’t have it—_  
  
*  
  
Harry’s eyes flew open, and he gasped before he started coughing. He’d just breathed in a huge lungful of dust, since he’d fallen asleep with his head on the old book on life-debts that he’d been pondering since three in the morning.  
  
He lifted his head, shook it, wiped the dust from his glasses and his eyes, and canceled the  _Lumos_  on his wand, since it was daylight now and he could see perfectly well. Then he turned at the sound of a slight cough, and found Ginny in the doorway of the library, watching him with a faintly sad expression.  
  
In her left hand, she held Narcissa Malfoy’s letter.  
  
“When were you going to tell me about this?” she asked.  
  
Harry flushed, a bit, and rose to cross the room and kiss her. Her lips felt distinctly different than Draco’s in the dream—  
  
 _Stop! Stop comparing them! That’s just a dream, just part of whatever strange curse it is that makes you see Draco bloody Malfoy in mirrors, too, and you don’t need to think about it!_  
  
“I didn’t want to wake you,” he whispered against her lips, when he drew back, holding her with one arm around her shoulders, and Ginny had relaxed against him. “That arrived by owl around three, and I knew how hard your day had been. I didn’t want to wake the kids, either.”  
  
“Considerate of you,” Ginny murmured, but her voice hadn’t entirely lost its sharpness. “You have to answer, don’t you?”  
  
Harry nodded, and gestured back at the book he’d been reading. “That says that whoever decides to fulfill or call on the life-debt first has the choice of how it’s paid. The only exception is if the debtor or the person the debt is owed to dies, and then the survivor has to choose what to do.” He thought for a moment of Snape, who had apparently fulfilled his debt to James Potter by protecting Harry during his first year.  
  
 _Or did he do it even then just because I had my mother’s eyes?_  
  
Harry shook his head. He had never sorted out his own feelings about Snape, beyond deciding that he’d been the bravest man he ever knew and giving Severus as a middle name to his second son—a choice Ginny had argued strenuously against, until Harry had shared Snape’s memories with her. It was disconcerting, and hurtful, to think too much more about it.  
  
 _And if he was alive right now, who knows what he would be like?  
  
People can change so much in ten years.  
  
Maybe Malfoy has, too—_  
  
Harry slammed the door of his mind abruptly on that thought. He would travel to Malfoy Manor, because he had no choice, but he would deal only with Narcissa. Draco bloody Malfoy could fucking well wait.  
  
“And how are you going to fulfill it in the face of all the other things you have to do?” Ginny’s voice was lightly exasperated, but Harry heard real fear there. She didn’t want him to run off and leave her by herself with the children again.  
  
Harry smiled and kissed her cheek. “I’ve already sent off an owl to ask George to come and stay with them,” he said. George still ran Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes by himself, but he was prone to taking half the days in the week off without explanation, and to sit up until all hours working on new pranks. He would be happy enough to come and spend some time in the Potters’ house, Harry knew; the children always cheered him up. “And I’m only giving my mornings to this life-debt business. There’s just too much  _else_  to do.”  
  
Ginny’s arms closed around him in a tight embrace for a moment. Then she murmured into his ear, “You are the best husband ever, and I’d make breakfast for you  _right now_  if Glynnis hadn’t told me that practice starts at eight this morning.”  
  
Harry briefly drew out Fabian Prewett’s watch to examine the time: half past seven. He nodded. “I’ll manage well enough for myself and the kids until George gets here. Go on.” He gave her a gentle push in the direction of the door.  
  
She waved to him jauntily, and then went to fetch her broom and uniform and a few pieces of toast to eat on the run. Harry spent some moments rubbing out the crick in his neck.  
  
Then he heard a thump from down the hall. A loud cry announced that Al had fallen out of bed again, probably in the course of one of his dreams, and then James began his singsong declaration that Al was a baa-aaa-aaby.  
  
Harry rolled his eyes and went to fetch his children, glad that George hadn’t arrived yet. Al tended to join James in unmanageable behavior until he’d had his breakfast.  
  
*  
  
“He’s coming, dear.”  
  
Draco tried not to make it look as if his shoulders were hunching defensively when his mother waved the letter from Potter at him. “Really?” he muttered into his porridge, and turned another page of the  _Daily Prophet_. Not that he cared about Quidditch scores, and not that it was easy to forget that the story of “his” crime was the lead article, but it was better than pretending to be happy that his old rival was coming.  
  
 _Old rival and new torment._  
  
If something ten years old could be considered new.  
  
“Yes. He says that he’ll only give the mornings to us, because he has—“ Narcissa sniffed to show what she thought of the next phrase “—other things to do. But he’s coming, and he promises to investigate the crime to the best of his ability.”  
  
“Of course,” Draco said, and then yelped as the paper was ripped away from him. His mother stood glaring at him, shaking her head.  
  
“You should at  _least_  clean yourself up a bit before he arrives, Draco,” she said, and gave a toss of her long blonde hair as if to show how clean she wanted him to be. “And put your memories of the night that that girl was killed into a Pensieve, so that Potter can see you have a perfectly good alibi.”  
  
“Mother—“ Draco began, determined to try and make her understand, yet one more time, that he  _couldn’t_  see Potter because of the mirrors.  
  
“Up, Draco!” And his mother clapped her hands and shoved at his shoulders the way she might have tried to train a naughty Crup puppy, if the Malfoys had ever been undignified enough to stoop to having pets.  
  
Grumpily, Draco went to his private loo. It had been carefully redone in green and silver tile with dimming charms cast on it, so that none of it reflected him. They’d found no way to detach the enchanted mirror from its place, but a cloth cast over it prevented Draco from seeing strange visions in it.  
  
He showered, bending his head down so that the warm fingers of water could rake through his hair more easily. Then he used his own fingers, pausing, as always, when he went through some strands and trying to figure out if they were actually thinning and falling out, or if it was just his imagination. Marian had said they were, but Marian would say nearly anything.  
  
It hadn’t been like that, once, the relationship between him and his wife, Draco thought as he turned so that the shower could rake across his back. They hadn’t ever loved each other, but they’d understood each other, and their companionship had been settled and strong. They’d been united in a desire that Scorpius should have the best life possible, certainly, and Marian didn’t care if he had male lovers as long as he didn’t bring any diseases back to their bed.  
  
And then she’d tried to kidnap Scorpius, and things had—  
  
Well.  
  
 _Things changed._  
  
Draco faced forwards again, and this time the shower caressed the scars he’d got from  _Sectumsempra_ , the bloody curse that Severus had invented but Potter had used. Severus had explained to Draco in short tones as he healed him that the curse was “for enemies,” and Potter probably hadn’t known what it would do.  
  
Not that that was an excuse, to Draco’s mind. Who simply used an unknown spell on someone else, without having the slightest idea of what it might do, even if it might backfire on him?  
  
 _Perhaps someone faced with an enemy trying to cast the Cruciatus Curse on him?_    
  
Draco told his conscience to hush—it was a very inconvenient mind-part to have—rinsed one more time, and stepped out of the shower. A charmed towel already waited for him, fluffing around him, and heating and drying his skin in all the right places. A comb and brush fluttered above his head, carefully using his mother’s judgment to decide how best his hair should look. Draco hated the way they felt, but since he wouldn’t look into mirrors, it was a necessary spell.  
  
Not that his avoiding mirrors mattered, of course, since he would see Potter in the flesh in a few hours anyway.   
  
His eyes rose and locked on the enchanted mirror covered with a cloth.  
  
A surge of unaccustomed bravery—or perhaps just longing to see if it was as bad as he remembered, since he hadn’t looked in so long—made him reach out and violently rip the cloth aside, exposing the glass.  
  
For a moment, he saw only himself, exactly as he looked now, scars partially exposed, towel moving around him like a snake, and he exhaled loudly in relief. And then Potter appeared behind him, head bent as he mouthed at the nape of Draco’s neck, his eyes half-closed, his lips moving in the words of some joke that Draco, of course, couldn’t hear.  
  
His scars began to tingle, including the cuts in his palms that still remained from the exploding mirror a few weeks gone, and a high singing invaded his ears, like the humming of bees disturbed in a hive.  
  
“ _Accio cloth_!” Draco yelled, and the cloth rose and went back into place. At once, the vision of himself and Potter vanished.  
  
The pain in the scars only slowly subsided.  
  
Draco closed his eyes as the comb and brush and towel continued to tend to him, and tried with all his heart not to think about what would happen when he saw Potter again.  
  
*  
  
“Hello?” Harry slowly pushed in the door of Iris’s Gallershop and looked around, although he could already tell the large front room only had easels and palettes and half-finished portraits in it. “Luna?”  
  
Bare feet sounded on the wooden stairs, and Luna danced into view a few moments later, her blonde hair braided with so many different kinds of flowers it looked as if she were wearing a garden on her head. Her eyes were bright and dreamy, with the kind of serenity that Harry knew only came to her when she was painting. She had a smock on, but only partway; it had come untied from her left shoulder. Daubs of paint covered her face, hands, and arms as messily as the ice cream that George had fetched James and Al from Florian Fortescue’s this morning. “Oh, hello, Harry,” she said, and gave him a slightly more “present” smile. “You came because you heard the yellow singing?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry agreed, because it was best to agree when he had no idea what Luna was talking about. “And to give you payment for that portrait that Dean was doing. He said it was completed--?”  
  
“Oh, of course!” Luna flung away the paintbrush she was holding, paused to consider the splotch of blue where it had slammed against a wall, and then seized his hand. Harry resigned himself to doing cleaning charms when he got home, but he was smiling in spite of himself. Luna’s happiness was very hard to resist. “How could I have forgotten? Except that the Wrackspurts  _do_  steal thoughts, you know, and keep them in their nests. If I could discover one, I’m sure I’d find all sorts of interesting things I’ve forgotten, like my father’s middle name. The portrait’s upstairs.”  
  
She pulled him upwards at a rapid rate, and Harry came briefly eye-to-eye with many finished and half-finished paintings before they emerged into the first floor of what Luna called the gallershop and Dean called the gallery or the shop, depending on his mood at the moment. Here there was much more light, thanks to the three enormous windows overlooking Diagon Alley, and ceilings so airy that Harry had often thought it was the only indoor space in wizarding Britain, other than the Great Hall at Hogwarts, where one could have a good game of Quidditch. An enormous mural occupied one wall, twining in and out of Luna’s dazzling colors and Dean’s more subdued style. Though they were both fine artists on their own, Harry liked the paintings they worked on together best.  
  
Dean looked up from a canvas across the room and gave Harry a little wave, but he was immersed in creation from the blank-eyed look of him, and so Harry just nodded back instead of trying to talk. Luna was dancing him past a series of paintings showing what looked like the Quidditch Pitch of Hogwarts, and finally settled like a small whirlwind before a portrait.  
  
“This is the one?” she asked solicitously, as if someone else might have requested a portrait of Harry’s family.  
  
“Yes,” Harry said, quietly, and not just because the painted children were dozing. He had to take a moment to admire how it had come out. Ginny sat in a chair in the forefront, with Harry leaning on the back of it, bending over her to whisper in her hair. James stood beside him, since he’d  _insisted_  on standing while Dean painted him—though this version of James was currently asleep on his father’s hip with his mouth wide open. Al and Lily sat in Ginny’s lap, at the moment collapsed together with their hair mingled. Harry felt another pulse of fierce love strike through him, and he smiled. It had been an excellent idea to have this painted, and though he knew he would sometimes regret the noise the children in the portrait made on top of the noise the real ones made, he could only commend Ginny for coming up with the idea.  
  
“I brought the two hundred Galleons we agreed on—“ he began, reaching into a pocket of his robes.  
  
“It was fifty,” said Luna.  
  
Harry eyed her. “No,” he said, “it was two hundred.”  
  
Nothing more futile than arguing with Luna, as her wide-eyed stare reminded him a moment later. “But it was fifty, Harry,” she said. “We’ve already been more than paid by the enjoyment we had in painting it.”  
  
“Luna—“  
  
“We aren’t hurting, Harry,” said Luna, and for a moment she was looking as keenly at him as someone “normal” would. “I promise, with our talents and as many people buy from us, we  _really_  aren’t hurting.” And then she slipped back into her dreamworld again. “The thought that it was two hundred is in the Wrackspurts’ nest, too, I’m sure.”  
  
In the end, Harry had to shake his head and give over the fifty Galleons. He was sure that Dean had agreed with Luna, because Dean agreed with Luna most of the time. He only hoped the payment really was enough to cover the paints, canvas, spells, and time they would have woven into the work.  
  
He enchanted the painting to hover behind him, nodded to Luna, and had started to turn away when she put her hand on his arm. Harry turned around. “What?” he asked. “Do I have a Nargle in my hair?”  
  
Luna shook her head, even as she stared at him. No, not precisely at him, Harry realized a moment later—at the scar in the center of his brow. His skin prickled with unease, but he didn’t draw away. One didn’t do that to Luna, either, any more than they argued with her.  
  
“You have two lives,” Luna whispered.  
  
Harry laughed in spite of himself. “More than that, I think, Luna, since I  _did_  come back from the dead after I defeated Voldemort.”  
  
“Two lives,” Luna insisted, in the same breathless voice. “There is great happiness and great danger ahead for you, and even though you run from the danger, you hurtle towards the happiness. What you must learn to understand is that they both lie in the same direction.” She gave a solemn little nod.  
  
Harry swallowed. He hadn’t told Luna about the mirror curse, because he wasn’t entirely sure that she wouldn’t have sallied off to confront Malfoy at once. Luna did that kind of thing for her friends.  
  
“And, Harry?” Luna leaned close to him.  
  
“What?” Harry whispered back.  
  
“There are Crumple-Horned Snorkacks around the corner,” Luna told him in exactly the same tone as before, and then turned and bounced across the room to resume work on the painting she’d abandoned.  
  
Harry gave a little snort and relaxed. Luna wasn’t a Seer; that had been proven true often enough, when her seemingly eerie predictions simply failed to come true. He had no reason to feel as if she had taken him out of the world and then ducked him back into a colder place than before.  
  
He left the Gallershop—he tended to prefer Luna’s name for it—with one final wave to Dean and determination riding in his mind. He would not allow things to be strange. He  _would_  go to the Malfoys’, as soon as he had deposited the painting at home with George and the kids, and he would behave like a calm, rational adult, and if he felt strange on seeing Malfoy, so what? He hadn’t seen the man in ten years, and he had never decided exactly how he felt about him. Some unease was to be expected. But no strangeness.  
  
The fact that now both his lightning scar and his marks from Nagini’s bite were burning didn’t  _matter_. It was just a fact, and facts could be ignored.  
  
*  
  
Harry Apparated in outside the ornate iron gates that fenced off Malfoy Manor from the rest of the world, and immediately had to lean against them, trembling, as a thick buzzing invaded his ears. His tension felt as if a dozen swarms of bees had left their hives and all settled on him.  
  
 _Stop it_ , he told himself.  _This is only fear, and fear may be a legitimate emotion, but it’s never stopped you from doing anything necessary_. He took a step back and raised a fist, rapping on the gates.  
  
He’d been expected, he saw, as the gates dissolved in a soft, pearly fall of mist and let him step through.   
  
Harry crossed the gleaming gardens without a glance to left or right.  _Be damned if I let Malfoy impress_  me.  
  
He reached the door at last, and let out a little sigh. He’d told Narcissa in his return letter that he wanted to talk to her, not Draco, using the excuse that speaking to the accused so soon would prejudice his conclusions. So a house-elf should meet him here and guide him to the mistress of the house.  
  
He raised a hand to knock, and then the door swung in and he found himself facing Draco.  
  
Their eyes met.  
  
And everything around them—Manor, gardens, doorstep, the ridiculous white peacock stalking a few steps away—began to ripple and blur and weave and waver, and the tension of bees hung around Harry’s neck like lead weights, and the only thing he could hear beyond the buzzing as he sagged to his knees was Malfoy’s weak, hoarse cry.


	4. The Golden Feeling

Draco’s head hurt so much that he felt certain something must have hit him. A stone, a storm, a spell, it didn’t matter; his skull was still splitting and about to break, pieces of skin held together only by pain. He slumped against the wall, moaning, clawing at the door of the Manor as if it would be able to hold him up.  
  
And then he felt something that terrified him even more than the pain in his head. The doorway began to fade and crumble away from him like mist, or the way the front gates did when they expected a visitor. Draco knew he would drop through it in a minute, and then he would land—  
  
Where?  
  
He clawed some more, and the stones only broke further. He began to tip sideways with slow, sickening inevitability. He wailed, and stuck out one hand as if his mother stood near him and could pull him out of danger, the way she’d attempted to do so many times during his Hogwarts years.  
  
A hand caught his own, and then a pair of arms solid in a way the Manor currently wasn’t wrapped around him, and Potter’s voice shouted directly into his ear, “Hang on, Malfoy! Think about your family! It’s the only way!”  
  
In other circumstances, Draco might have argued just for the sake of arguing (and because it was  _Potter_  who had taken it on himself to tell him what to do). But now, he was far too terrified of his own tilting and his home’s fading to resist. He pictured Scorpius with all his might, thinking of the warm weight in his lap when his son clung to him, the baby-breath in his face, the soft yawns and murmurs and demands for stories.  
  
And the tilting, the fading, the horrible pain—  
  
They stopped, leaving not an echo of themselves behind.  
  
Even standing in Potter’s embrace, a position that would have embarrassed him at any other time, did not take precedence over Draco’s utter astonishment. He nearly fell, and this time it was a combination of Potter and the Manor’s doorway that held him up.  
  
*  
  
Harry felt the ground fuzz beneath him, in a way that normally only happened to him in dreams, as if it had turned to dandelion fluff. Had he believed he would wake from this as a nightmare into another and better reality, he wouldn’t have fought.  
  
But he knew this was real, and he did  _not_  want to know where this strange, rippling magic thought it could take him. The only time he had suffered anything comparable was when he’d glanced up, seen Draco Malfoy’s face and reaching hand in the mirror of his loo, and smashed the reflection with his own magic so he couldn’t be drawn into it.  
  
On the other hand, this time there was no mirror to break, and he had no idea how he could stop his going. Grimly, he reached out in thought to the people he loved; he could at least die with his last memory being of how Al had looked up from his toast and gaped at his enchanted counterpart when Harry floated the portrait of their family through the fireplace—  
  
And the rippling vanished, and he knelt on grass again.  
  
Harry fell onto his hands, breathing hard, the sound of his own heart so loud that for long moments he didn’t realize Malfoy was still groaning. Then he bolted to his feet. A sparkling mist surrounded the other man, like—well, like light reflecting off broken glass. Harry suspected he was suffering from the same thing, and fellow-feeling made his feet light as he leaped up on the threshold and his arms quick as he seized Malfoy and pulled him against him.  
  
He knew he shouted that Malfoy should think about family, but he couldn’t remember the exact words. He was too busy being terrified that he could feel the shoulders and robes under his hands growing perceptibly  _thinner_ , as if he were trying to hold a beam of sunlight.  
  
And then, with an audible  _crunch_ , as if the invisible mirror that surrounded them had broken all over again, Malfoy turned real again. Harry clutched at him in a paroxysm of relief, then did a little dance to avoid dropping him as he momentarily became dead weight. His hand slapped out and clutched the doorway, though, and he stood there, breathing, head dangling, cheeks lightly flushed with what Harry could only guess were the remnants of shock and fear.  
  
Harry closed his eyes. Dreams tried to tell him that he already knew how Malfoy would smell and feel, from constant nights of holding him—even if not in the flesh. He strangled the dreams.   
  
It didn’t help that Malfoy seemed to be in no great hurry to draw back from Harry’s embrace. His head rolled to the side and rested on Harry’s shoulder for a moment, and his breaths stroked along the side of his neck. Harry shuddered—his neck was a sensitive place—and pushed him back a little more roughly than might have been strictly necessary.  
  
 _Fuck that_ , he thought as he rubbed his hands on his robes.  _It wasn’t strictly necessary for Malfoy to lean on me like I’m his sole source of support, either._  
  
He retreated into the front room of the Manor, which he caught a glimpse of from the corners of his eyes as pale, filled with light and an enormous ornate fireplace and more silver knickknacks than ten wizards should need. “Are you all right?” he asked, loudly, ostentatiously. Where the hell were the house-elves? They should have come the minute they sensed their master in danger, shouldn’t they?  
  
“Well enough, for someone suffering under a curse,” Malfoy rasped, and then his head lifted, and Harry found himself unwillingly forced to meet a pair of eyes brilliant with knowledge. “One that you’re suffering from, too, Potter. Aren’t you?”  
  
*  
  
Potter froze, as if he were going to deny it, and then he ended up just shrugging and saying nothing, though his lips tightened. Draco took the moment to study the man he hadn’t seen in more than a decade.  
  
He certainly looked more adult than he had ten years ago, but he wasn’t unfamiliar. Draco had had the mirrors to tell him that Potter now wore his hair in a style that didn’t _quite_  resemble, “Look at me, I’ve climbed out of a rat’s nest,” and which artistically concealed his lightning bolt scar, even when he turned his head away from Draco’s intent stare. His green eyes had brightened and deepened at the same time, acquiring a store of both experience and happiness.   
  
 _Happier than I am, I’d wager_ , Draco thought, and felt a stirring of the old envy that seemed to be his constant lot in Potter’s presence.  
  
He wore robes that suited him much better than the Hogwarts robes ever had, of a shade just between black and deep green, and what Draco could see of broad shoulders, muscled chest, and warily held arms urged him to touch. The clasp of those arms lingered around him like the smell of smoke. He suspected that, if he permitted himself, he might have a new wank fantasy for a few days or weeks.  
  
Not that he would permit himself, of course. Because it was  _Potter_.  
  
The knowledge that Potter suffered under the same kind of curse, though, was enormously heartening. Here was someone who would believe him, who would make it so that he wasn’t alone anymore. And if Potter tried to deny that the same thing had happened to him, Draco would brain him with a broomstick.  
  
“Stared your fill, Malfoy?” Potter said, and he still couldn’t manage a proper sneer. Of course, Draco would like to think that what had just happened between them had unsettled Potter as much as him.  
  
“Not quite,” Draco said, modifying any appreciation out of his voice. “First of all, I want to know how you knew that thinking about my family would stop the curse, whatever it is.”  
  
Now that he thought about it, Potter might have known how to make Draco’s life better all these years, and he had never come forth with the knowledge. He had certainly suffered less than Draco had. Selfish Gryffindor, as usual, not considering that maybe, just  _maybe_ , the man he saw in the mirror might be undergoing the same thing.  
  
Draco folded his arms and waited for an answer.  
  
*  
  
Harry hated the way Malfoy stared at him, hated the way he spoke, hated the way he moved, hated everything about him. He had spent the last ten years trying to put the dreams and the unavoidable glimpses in any reflective surface away, and now that he shared a room with the git, all those memories rushed back at him, making the hairs along his arms and neck practically stand on end with awareness. He knew exactly how many feet away from him Malfoy stood, what the pattern of his breathing was like and, now, how his skin smelled.   
  
Harry hated it. But then, he had always hated this strangeness. It made a part of his life that couldn’t be shared with Ginny, the way they shared everything else—space, children, love, beliefs. He had lived with it. After all, if he never came back into contact with Malfoy, the strangeness should wither and die. And if it didn’t, it made no more difference than the neglected hobby of collecting Chocolate Frog cards he had once had and which his wife did not understand, either.  
  
 _All the more reason to be done with this business of fulfilling the life-debt as soon as possible._  
  
“I didn’t know that,” he said roughly, and then cleared his throat. “Nothing like this attack has ever happened to me before. I thought I was—well, dying. I envisioned my son, and the shaking stopped.” He snapped his head up, reminding himself that he didn’t intend to cower before Malfoy. “And the same thing happened to you when you thought about your family, didn’t it?”  
  
Malfoy nodded. “My son, Scorpius.”  
  
Harry cleared his throat again, this time so he wouldn’t snicker.  
  
“And you know you weren’t dying,” Malfoy continued quietly. “You were  _going_  somewhere. Weren’t you?”  
  
Harry clenched his fists as all impulse to laugh died away from him. “I don’t see why we need to discuss this, Malfoy,” he said. “I intend to fulfill the life-debt your mother called in as soon as possible, and I need only deal with her. It would be convenient if you could put your memories of the night the girl was murdered in a Pensieve for me, but—“  
  
“I’m  _tired_  of not being able to look at my reflection, Potter,” said Malfoy, and advanced one step towards him. “I’m  _tired_  of not knowing when the hell the scars I received from you will burn, or what that burning means.” Harry couldn’t stop himself from starting, and Malfoy snorted. “It happens to you, too, doesn’t it?” he asked, and in his voice Harry heard all the things he didn’t want—strangeness, intimacy, a forced acknowledgement of this odd magic.  
  
“It’s my scars from Voldemort that burn,” he retorted, and was pleased to see Malfoy flinch at the name even though it had been ten years. “ _You_  never gave me any scars worth mentioning.”  
  
Malfoy’s nostrils flared. Harry spun on one heel away from him, partially because he didn’t want to get drawn into an argument and partially because he could tell someone else had entered the room. Narcissa Malfoy stood in a doorway next to the fireplace, her eyes passing back and forth between them and a small, tight smile on her face.  
  
“Welcome, Mr. Potter,” she said. “I trust my son has not managed to antagonize you already?”  
  
“Not completely, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry said, with a forced smile, and was absolutely delighted to see Narcissa look at her son with a frown. He’d certainly never thought he’d live to see his school rival receive a scolding from his mother.  
  
Of course, he would rather have lived without seeing his school rival receive anything, even this.  
  
He pushed the thought out of his mind and smiled more politely. “As I told you, unfortunately I have only a small amount of time each day that I can devote to this case. I am glad to be able to fulfill the life-debt, and I’ll do all I can, but I can’t solve it on the spot, or perhaps even within a few days.”  
  
Narcissa tilted her head down graciously. Harry thought she approved of his honesty; she probably would have distrusted a declaration of altruism more than one of self-interest. “The matter is not yet pressing, Mr. Potter. The evidence linking Draco to the crime is fragmentary, and the Aurors are hunting a few other suspects. Draco has already placed his memories in a Pensieve for you, which I have in another room and will escort you to, since my company will probably seem more congenial than my son’s.” She held out an elbow to him. “Shall we?”  
  
“I would be delighted,” Harry said, and took her arm, and left the front room without a glance back at Draco.  
  
*  
  
Draco was still staring after him when Marian’s voice said from the direction of the front door, “He’s more impressive than I thought he would be. Not least because he was not so impressed with  _you_.”  
  
Draco didn’t bother turning to face his wife. He knew she would have one hand on her hip, her head lifted in the imperious posture that she probably didn’t even realize she’d copied from Narcissa, her face angled so that her scars were emphasized. He didn’t care to see her at the moment.  
  
“Potter’s never been impressed with me,” he said absently. “But in this case, he doesn’t have a choice. We share the curse that makes it dangerous for me to look into mirrors.” He turned to face her now, feeling less intimidated than he had done for over a year.  _Perhaps my hatred for Potter just drives other feelings out_. “He’ll have to listen to me to have any hope of undoing it.”  
  
Marian’s lips parted in a faint smile, and she took a few steps forwards, like a witch preparing for a duel. Draco shook his wand into his hand—Marian had attacked him before—and waited.  
  
“And if he insists that he  _doesn’t_  need you?” she murmured. “If  _he_  can live with the curse in the way that you can’t, because he’s stronger than you?”  
  
“That won’t prevent me from seeking clues in his behavior, now that I know it affects more people than just me,” Draco said calmly. “He can be my test case. I’m not unique, and my mother’s theory that the curse came from the spells my aunt used during the war grows more and more unlikely.”  
  
Marian shook her head, just a bit. “I saw you,” she said. “I saw you near the door. I saw you  _fading_.”  
  
“Did you?” Draco studied her with narrowed eyes, reminding himself that he had no reason to be frightened. His wife wouldn’t try to kill him. Narcissa would  _know_ , and so would the house-elves, who as a last resort could communicate with the very walls and floors of the Manor itself and draw forth any memories of threatening words or gestures. Besides, she wanted him alive so she could make him miserable. “Well, I highly doubt that you’ll be able to do anything to exacerbate it, so don’t flatter yourself.”  
  
“I saw you fading,” Marian repeated softly. “I saw the man who endangered my child fading.”  
  
“I fathered him, too.”  
  
Marian flicked her fingers, never taking her gaze from Draco’s face. “Unimportant. You’ve never felt another body inside yours, Draco, or a second heart beating alongside your own. If I hadn’t felt the physical evidence, I would say that you  _haven’t_  a heart. You love Scorpius as your heir, and that’s all.”  
  
Draco blinked, surprised. Had Marian somehow missed how much he really cared for his son? Of course, he never  _did_  show his love for the baby in front of her. It was a weakness that would have resulted in mockery.  
  
“That’s not true,” he said.  
  
“You’re having house-elves raise him. You let your mother saddle him with that name. You let your mother use  _magic_  on him.” Marian leaned forwards. “Tell me, where in that is evidence of caring for him?”  
  
“It’s the way Malfoys care for each other.” Draco hitched a shoulder. “Not that I would expect  _you_  to understand that, since the only Malfoy thing about you is your current last name.”  
  
“When will you learn that it’s better not to antagonize me, Draco?” Marian murmured, and then she turned and left the room.  
  
Draco snorted and shook his head. His hand tingled as it fell away from his wand, but then,  _most_  of him seemed to tingle, blazing with excitement.  
  
Potter suffered under the same curse. And yet he seemed to lead a relatively normal life, and Draco had never heard any reports of eccentricities on his part—which avoiding reflective surfaces would surely be.  
  
If he could do it, Draco could. Or he would ask Potter again and again, and study him, until he found out how he could do it.  
  
Because anything Harry bloody Potter could do, Draco could manage.   
  
He let out long, slow breaths, and felt as if he were breathing in sunlight.  
  
*  
  
Harry pulled his head back from the Pensieve, frowning. Narcissa sat in a heavy oak chair beside him, identical to his in everything but height. The Pensieve sat at one end of a long dining table that Harry imagined could have seated twenty with ease. Harry had had his head down inside the silvery liquid of Draco’s memories for perhaps twenty memories.  
  
Narcissa had already showed him the articles about the murder in the  _Daily Prophet_  and conveyed what information she had about the night it happened, which wasn’t much. And while Harry could see why the Aurors suspected Draco, he had no clue how they could actually solve the case.  
  
Or how  _he_  could, for that matter.  
  
Harry shut his eyes, massaging his temples. He would go slowly, and rework the memories in his head. He would put them together, if he could, and try to spot gaps, or at least a place where he could begin.  
  
The girl’s name had been Esther Goldstein, and apparently she’d been distantly related to Anthony Goldstein, an old Ravenclaw classmate of Harry and Draco’s. She’d entered Hogwarts two years before them, though, and completed her N.E.W.T’s and left the school without incident. She’d settled into a nondescript Ministry job, filing paperwork for the Obliviators and occasionally filling in for them. Even when the damage was done to the relationship between Muggleborn and pure-blood witches and wizards during Voldemort’s War—which nearly everyone Harry knew called the War of You-Know-Who or something else similarly ridiculous—she’d escaped persecution by vanishing in time, and then returning to take up the same job as before. If she had any political ties, both the  _Daily Prophet_  and Narcissa’s contacts in the Ministry had been unable to discover them.  
  
Harry had seen pictures of her face, and of the body. She was a quiet, brown-haired witch who looked a bit young for thirty, squinting into the camera and turning her head back and forth to study the observer with one eye, like a bird.  
  
The body, which had been found a week ago, was mutilated to the point that the Aurors who found it had been unsure at first if it was human. Most of her fingers and toes were missing, but both thumbs and the right index finger had been stuffed down Esther’s throat. Every limb was severed, most of the skin had been stripped off in small pieces, and the top of the skull had been opened and the brains scooped out. Worst of all, someone had apparently taken a knife to Esther and raped her with it before she died. The Auror reports Narcissa had obtained were written in a shaky hand, and Harry absolutely could not blame them.  
  
The only sign of Draco’s supposed presence was a strip of cloth with the Malfoy crest on it dropped nearby. Even the Aurors recognized it as obvious bait in a trap, but they had no other leads, so they’d seized on it.  
  
Narcissa had also shown him the threatening letters that had arrived at the Manor starting six months ago, long before Esther’s murder happened. Most of them threatened harm directly to Draco, but there were also some addressed to Narcissa, and even Scorpius, Draco’s son, and his wife, Marian. Most described in lavish detail the mutilations the tormentors would inflict on their bodies.  
  
Harry was familiar with such methods from his work with the Blood Reparations Department, though the actual infliction of such violence was rare. He was sure that he would have heard more about Esther’s murder if the Aurors hadn’t wanted to concentrate their attention on the Malfoys. Both the extreme pure-blood supremacy groups and those “revolutionaries” who wanted to ensure Muggleborn control of the wizarding world and full access for Muggles to all kinds of magical conveniences would use letters like these at times. Since the Malfoys were a prominent pure-blood family, it wasn’t surprising they’d been targeted.  
  
But the use of blood magic—Narcissa had showed him the spatters of evidence captured and frozen in the Manor’s wards—and the apparent attempt to link the Malfoys and the murder was far more serious. Harry couldn’t remember any case like it since Hermione had created the Department.  
  
Harry had never cared for Draco, but he and his family didn’t deserve to die at the hands of fanatics. He assured Narcissa solemnly that he would look into the case and do what he could to bring it to an end.  
  
She accepted that, too, graciously enough, and accompanied him back to the front door of the Manor. Harry did pause on the way there, because his curiosity wouldn’t let the matter  _entirely_  rest, to ask about Draco and mirrors.  
  
Narcissa’s brows drew down, and she sighed. “Has he told you about his belief that he cannot look at his own reflection safely, then?” She shook her head. “It is not true. I believe that, at most, some of the curses my sister—“ her mouth twisted “—cast during the war have returned to haunt him. But the matter does not threaten his life, and is not as serious as he believes.”  
  
“But what are the symptoms?” Harry persisted.  
  
“Not being able to look into mirrors. Some of his scars burn some of the time, apparently.” Narcissa shrugged, patently uninterested. “It keeps him a little odd, perhaps, but it is his own lack of ambition that means he has done nothing with his life since the war.”  
  
 _Well, at least he doesn’t have dreams_. “He remained at home even before these threats arrived, then?” Harry asked.  
  
“Yes.” Narcissa snorted. Harry thought she might not have confided this to him at all, but she was frustrated at having  _no one_  to talk to. “He stays at home, and plays with his son, and avoids his wife, and does  _nothing_  else. He’s only twenty-eight. He has more life in him than that. But he won’t listen to me.” She gave a single sharp nod. “I mean to  _make_  him listen, but my latest plan cannot proceed until this threat is past—“  
  
She seemed to realize whom she was talking to suddenly, and snapped her mouth, shutting off the flow of words. She gave Harry a cool little smile before she turned her back and departed, and he took it as the signal it was to bow his head and get out.  
  
Draco waylaid him before he could step out the door.  _Of course_. Harry folded his arms, sighed, and leaned on the doorframe that he had rescued the git from sinking into an hour before. “What do you want, Malfoy?”  
  
*  
  
It was on Draco’s tongue to say, “You,” just to see how Potter would react, but that might make his wedding vows take notice and subject him to intolerable itching, and he didn’t want that. He wanted the answers to a few questions instead.  
  
“Do you think I committed the murder?” he asked.  
  
Potter’s mouth actually dropped open slightly. Then he shook his head and said, “Of course not,” as if the possibility hadn’t even occurred to him.  
  
Draco blinked. “You don’t? Why?” Surely his worst rival in the world—and someone stupid enough to refuse to admit he was suffering from the same magic as Draco—would want to believe him capable of a heinous crime.  
  
“You’re not a killer,” Potter said. His voice carried firm conviction. “You never were. I—“ He paused for a moment, then said, “I was there, that night on the Tower, when you couldn’t kill Dumbledore. And I had a mental connection with Voldemort during the war. I could sometimes see through his eyes.”  
  
“You realize how insane that sounds, yes?” Draco couldn’t resist interjecting.  
  
Potter ignored the interruption. “And I saw him ordering you to torture people.” His voice softened, and he gazed at Draco with pity in his face. “You did it, but obviously against your will. I never thought much of you, Malfoy, but I could never class you with the likes of the Carrows and Fenrir Greyback—or your aunt, for that matter. And it was someone like that who killed that poor girl. Not you. Never you. You have some essential decency in you.”  
  
Draco licked his lips and lifted his chin. His heart was pounding oddly fast. “And enough courage to face this curse, even when you don’t.”  
  
Potter’s face shut down. “Leave it alone, Malfoy,” he murmured.  
  
“You don’t  _want_  to know?” Draco cocked his head. Emotions he hadn’t felt in ten years were moving through him, energy that made his brain feel fuller and faster than a good meal could. “You’re content to live the rest of your life in fear of your own reflection? How  _unlike_  you, Potter.”  
  
“I want to live my life,” Potter said, enunciating each word clearly. His eyes stared directly into Draco’s, and the intense feeling increased, thrumming through his blood like the healthy equivalent of the tension that had nearly destroyed him earlier, making him long to feel more of it. “Without this kind of strangeness. Without seeing you more than I have to. We got rid of that fading feeling once, but who knows when it might return?” Potter shook his head. “No. If I ignore it, it’ll go away.”  
  
“I’m not willing to do that,” Draco said.  
  
“You can study it all you want. Just don’t expect my help.” Potter turned away as abruptly as he had when Narcissa summoned him and exited the Manor.  
  
Draco closed his eyes. His chest heaved with a deep breath. The golden feeling of energy and well-being was cleaning out his veins, speeding through them, stirring sluggish blood.  _Ideas_  stirred in him, where for so long his brain had felt locked in ice, unable to work, unable to come up with anything that would change the basic, nerve-deadening situation in which he lived.  
  
Perhaps it was the mere presence of his enemy. Perhaps it was knowing that someone beside him suffered under this magic, and that it was real. Perhaps it was the first statement of belief in him that someone who was not his mother had made in ten years—no, longer, because neither his parents nor the Dark Lord had been blind to his lack of ability during the War, and even Snape had continually doubted Draco’s capacity for any task not related to Potions.  
  
He wasn’t free yet. Not by a long shot.  
  
But he  _might_  be.  
  
And for that, he was willing to risk everything he had in hand at the moment. Save for Scorpius, it was not as though he had anything to lose.


	5. Life Goes On

Draco gave his mother a slow smile. “Because I want to know.”  
  
“I cannot conceive why you would want to know something so ridiculous.”  
  
 _Patience_ , Draco reminded himself.  _She still doesn’t believe the mirror magic is real. She wasn’t there to witness both Potter and I fading._  
  
It seemed typical of his luck that his wife, who cared only to make his life miserable, was the one who  _had_  seen. But Draco was not in the mood to rant at the unfairness of fate right now. He wanted his mother to give him any hints that Potter might have dropped about  _his_  symptoms, so that Draco could begin his research in a broader arena than merely relying on his own perceptions.  
  
He therefore raised an eyebrow at his mother and arranged his face in a subtly pleading look, and, as it usually had since he mastered it at the age of six, that expression worked on his mother. Narcissa sighed loudly and put her quill down. She’d been writing a letter to the Ministry, probably another explanation of why they couldn’t simply lower the wards and let Aurors into the Manor.  
  
“Potter mentioned mirrors,” she said. “He asked if you were having visions. And that is  _all_  he said, Draco Lucius.” She gave him a stare that might have been intimidating if Draco hadn’t been long accustomed to seeing its elder and darker cousin on his father’s face. “I would rather that you applied yourself to the study of rhetoric than worried about magic that does not exist.”  
  
Draco gave her a faint smile and turned away without answering. His mother  _still_  thought he could become a formidable speaker, and win election to the Wizengamot. He had tried to explain that the name of Malfoy no longer carried the weight it had in the past, and she had immediately snapped that it could, if he would just  _work_  at it.  
  
He had the knowledge he had come for. He could afford to smile.  
  
He entered his study and locked the door behind him with a Knot Spell that tied in to the wards of the house. The only one who might possibly be able to undo it was his mother, and even she would take enough time for the wards to vibrate and warn him. Draco crossed to the desk in the center of the study—large and made of gleaming walnut wood, it had once been his father’s—and sat down in the chair behind it, which was black and had carved silver dragons climbing the legs.  
  
He laid out a fresh sheet of parchment in front of him, and arranged an inkwell and quill next to it with precise movements. He felt an alien emotion sweeping through his chest, and paused.  
  
No, not alien. Like the feeling of freedom he had discovered on Potter’s leaving, it had merely been a long time since he experienced it. This was the same mixture of mischief and clear thought that had occupied him when he devised the SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY badges, or the song that proclaimed “Weasley is Our King,” before the Gryffindors twisted his magnificent creation to their own purposes. He had a wonderful, marvelous idea, and he only needed to go through a few steps to produce it.  
  
Smiling, Draco dipped his quill in the ink and began to write down everything he knew about the mirror magic he and Potter had experienced.  
  
1\. _We both reacted strongly to seeing each other again.  
a. This suggests that Potter has been seeing me in mirrors, even as I have seen him.  
2\. We both began to fade. Potter won’t admit it, but I see no reason his reaction should be dissimilar to mine, and in any case he grabbed hold of me and shouted that thinking of my family was the way to stop “it.” How would he know what “it” was, or how to stop it, unless he had experienced it himself?  
3\. Thinking of Scorpius stopped the shaking, the fading, and the tilting. Potter must have thought of his family, too, or perhaps his children. He can be anchored in the same way I can.  
4\. This suggests he was fading for the same reason.  
5\. Conclusion: Magic through the mirrors is affecting us in the same ways._  
  
Draco had to pause to wet his quill again, and then he began the list of differences between them.  
  
1. _I see detailed visions of what look like us embracing, arguing, and sleeping together in the mirrors. Perhaps Potter’s visions are not as detailed.  
2\. He wishes to run away from this. I wish to face it. (Strange that a Gryffindor should be such a coward).  
3\. I am imprisoned in my home by my inability to look at reflections or escape their haunting. Potter appears to have led a relatively normal life.  
4\. My scars he inflicted on me burn. His scars from the Dark Lord burn._  
  
Another pause to wet the quill.  
  
1\. _I can’t come to certain conclusions yet—for example, that Potter has escaped the worst of the mirror-haunting because he wants to ignore it—because I don’t know enough details.  
2\. Nor can I say for certain what those differences mean.  
3\. But I do know I want my life back, and it seems reasonable enough to suggest that I should be able to attain it whether or not Potter is willing to help me.  
4\. We’re connected in some way; the magic suggests that. I don’t know the source of the connection, but I can research it.   
5\. We are tied by:  
a. Being born in the same year.  
b. Experiences as schoolmates.  
c. Mutual hatred.  
d. Having once used the same wand.  
e. Life-debts._  
  
The last word sheared off into a smear of ink as Draco looked up, wide-eyed, at the far wall of the study. His breath was coming fast, and his mind was tracing out a path that felt unfamiliar. Of course, he had always avoided thinking about that last year of the war—the year that had proven him a useless weakling in the most pointed of ways—as much as possible.  
  
He’d once written an essay on life-debts for History of Magic. He couldn’t remember most of what he’d learned, he’d have to look it up again, but one sentence still stood out in his mind, probably because it had been the one interesting fact he’d collected from an otherwise dusty tome.  
  
 _Multiple life-debts tying a pair can make for strange circumstances._  
  
Couldn’t they just? And he and Potter  _had_  mutual life-debts. Potter had saved him from the burning Room of Hidden Things. He’d Stunned a Death Eater a short time later who had been about to curse Draco; Draco would not have admitted it at the time if someone pressed him, but he knew that sudden bolt of red light out of nowhere had been Potter.   
  
But there were also life-debts the other way around. His mother had saved Potter’s life, as he’d told Scorpius, and that was the very bond she’d called on to ensure that Potter helped them with Draco’s murder accusation. True, that was not a debt owed to Draco directly, but it  _was_  owed to his family. When members of a pure-blood family considered themselves as a single unit, the way that Narcissa tended to do when thinking of the Malfoys, then the debt could still tie a child of that family and the person who owed it together.  
  
And…  
  
Draco rapped his quill thoughtfully against his hand. He could not hurry the thought forming in his mind right now, and he knew better than to ignore it.  _Something_  was bubbling towards the surface. He merely had to wait until it burst.  
  
And then it did.  
  
He remembered Greyback bringing Potter and his friends to the Manor. (And why was the memory so clear? Had he really done so little with himself since the war that it was the most exciting thing his mind could think of to detail?) Potter’s face had been swollen, but Granger was still recognizable. He had waffled, refusing to identify any of them. It had not been the bravest stand he could have taken, but it would have been so easy to speak the exact words, and condemn the Savior to death. He’d held Potter’s life in his power, even if only for a few moments.  
  
And he’d given it back to him.  
  
It might count as a fourth debt.  
  
And even if it didn’t, Draco thought, standing and moving about the room as excitement tore through him, the magic connecting them might actually be  _more_  powerful that way. It was an uncertain debt, a wavering circumstance that could be a channel for the connection or might not be.   
  
Under such conditions, might the power binding them behave, well, erratically? Might it not seek outlets that would seem strange and would not match the natural symptoms of a life-debt?  
  
Draco thought it might.  
  
He cast a spell that would reveal to him which books on his shelves concerned life-debts, and a soft blue glow wreathed ten or fifteen of them. He set about pulling them down, a small, fixed smile on his lips.  
  
He told himself not to be too excited. He told himself that, after all, the answer might be something else entirely, and he couldn’t expect to solve a mystery of ten years’ duration in the course of one morning.  
  
But he thought he might be on the correct track. And if he was, then all he and Potter had to do to sever the connections between them was fulfill the life-debts. Draco could name the payments if Potter refused to, and once he knew the truth, Potter would probably be most anxious to accept whatever he offered.  
  
 _Draco_  would then be the brave one in this mess, the strong one, the one who had faced what their connections meant while Potter preferred to cower and turn his face away.  
  
He would have proved he could do something, other than sit at home and brood on the waste his life had become.   
  
His mouth watered at the thought of it, and at the thought of determining the course of his own life after this—not being what his mother or wife wanted but what he wanted to be, without his own faults to hold him back any longer.  
  
Uninterrupted. Free.  
  
Whole.  
  
*  
  
“You don’t think it’s funny?” Teddy grinned up at Harry through a mask of half-melted ice cream. “ _I_  think it’s funny.”  
  
“And since when do  _you_  get to have an opinion?” Harry growled, but the growl was half-hearted and he knew it. When Teddy grinned, he saw Tonks looking out of his godson’s face. It was the same reason he found it so much harder to get angry at Albus than at James. For all that Al had Harry’s coloring and looked nothing like the late Headmaster, he had a way of appearing downcast and pitiful that reminded Harry of Dumbledore as he’d learned to see him ten years ago.  
  
“Since you take me out in public, and then blush like Victoire does when I joke with her,” said Teddy promptly, leaning back against the seat of Florean Fortescue’s and devouring half his remaining ice cream without a pause for breath. Harry shook his head as chocolate dripped down Teddy’s cheeks and crawled across his arms like a host of breeding snakes. Andromeda would yell at him for that one, Harry was certain, unless he gave Teddy a quick shower with  _Aquamenti_  before he took him home. “They’re just looking at you, Uncle Harry. Why the long face?”  
  
Harry shook his head again. He couldn’t explain to Teddy how much the stares and murmurs when they went out in public embarrassed him, even years later. Teddy thought it was rather wonderful that Harry had defeated Voldemort, and had demanded story after story about Uncle Harry in the Chamber of Secrets and Uncle Harry in the Triwizard Tournament. He had, however, declared that  _his_  version of defeating Voldemort would have involved more of the Sword of Gryffindor and less of dying to save everybody.  
  
Harry hoped Teddy would understand it from his perspective someday, but, in the meantime, he loved the boy too much to refuse when he asked to go to Diagon Alley and eat ice cream. A few stares were a small price to pay to watch Teddy grin like Tonks, and make sweeping gestures of his arm in which Harry saw Remus in the mad enthusiasm of teaching, and imitate others’ voices with a sarcastic touch that was all his own.  
  
Of course, someone ended up pulling on his sleeve and murmuring in awed tones, “Mr. Potter, sir?” Harry mustered a smile and turned around to see a small witch bobbing up and down so fast that her pointed hat seemed to be beneath the level of the table more often than above it.  
  
“Yes?” he asked, keeping the smile intact even when she thrust a quill and a roll of parchment towards him.  
  
“Could you—“ She sniffled and rubbed at her face with a bright yellow handkerchief for a moment, then peered at him shyly above it. “Could you just write, ‘To Aminta, from Harry Potter’? My daughter—Aminta—she was crippled when they tortured her during the war, and she doesn’t get out much, but she just  _adores_  you. Reads all the articles the  _Prophet_  prints about you. And she’d never be so bold as to approach you herself—oh, she’ll be so embarrassed when she finds out I did, I can just hear her saying, ‘Mother’! now—but she’d treasure your signature all her born days. I know she will.”  
  
Harry supposed his smile was wan, but he couldn’t help flinching as he thought that Aminta had probably been Muggleborn, or one of the brave pure-bloods who tried to look past differences and help those the wizarding world was persecuting, if she’d been crippled for her efforts. “Of course,” he said, and signed as she requested. The witch uttered a soft little sound of rapture and took the parchment and quill from him when he was done, cradling them like babies.  
  
“Thank you, oh thank you!” she cried, and hesitated. Before Harry knew what she was doing, she swooped in, kissed his cheek, and then ran away into the crowd in the middle of the Alley, now and then kicking up her heels beneath her robes. Said crowd took that as their cue to applaud.  
  
Harry picked up his ice cream dish and held it against his face. It still retained a faint hint of the spells that had kept the sweet intact until it reached him, and that might help to cool his burning cheeks.  
  
“See,” Teddy said complacently, eyeing his last scoop of chocolate like an Auror planning how to best attack a Death Eater stronghold, “if that were  _me_ , I would have asked if her daughter’s pretty.”  
  
“I’ll have you know I’m married,” Harry retorted lightly. “Remember Aunt Ginny?”  
  
“Just asking if a girl’s pretty doesn’t count,” Teddy said, and then appeared to inhale the chocolate. “Not enough to hurt, anyway.” He looked up at his godfather and shook his head in ten-year-old disapproval. “ _I_  would use my fame for all sorts of great things. I can’t think why you don’t.”  
  
Harry shrugged. It was simpler than trying to explain how each little glance seemed to cut a piece of his soul out of him, remove parts that should be private and reserved for Ginny and his family. Harry hated being a public figure more than he had ever known he would for precisely that reason. He should be able to choose who he shared himself with, and it didn’t seem he could.  
  
And, of course, there was the fact that he’d done steady but not noteworthy work in the Blood Reparations Department ever since the war. It was good work, needed work, and he was proud to be doing it, but there was a difference between it and the heroics that had gone on during the war and which the wizarding public seemed to think were the only kinds of deeds worth their reverence. Harry had done his last “heroic” act ten years ago. Why did they feel the need to keep avidly staring at him, as if it were only yesterday?  
  
“Done!” Teddy announced.   
  
Harry looked at his godson, and had to laugh. Teddy had turned his hair the exact color of the ice cream spattered all over him, so that it looked as if he were much messier than he really was.  
  
“Done, indeed,” Harry said, drawing his wand, reaching for his godson’s arm, and preparing to Apparate. “But we’re coming in near the pond, so that you can have a short swim first.”  
  
Teddy’s squeal of pretended outrage and real delight was cut off as they disappeared.  
  
*  
  
Draco blew the dust off the page he was examining, and leaned forwards to make sure the relevant paragraph  _was_  written the way he thought it was written. He chuckled when he made it out.  
  
 _Life-debts are one of the least understood forms of magic that connects wizard and wizard, less researched (because less common) than doubled spells or the use of Time-Turners (see_  Why Time Does Not Like Wizarding-Kind  _for more on the use of Time-Turners). However, all experts agree that they linger in the lives of those who owe them and those they are owed to until something is done to fulfill them. If one member of the pair dies before fulfillment comes, the burden of the debt is passed on to their surviving children, heirs, or siblings. Multiple debts increase the obligation and the amount of magic that surrounds the pair, sometimes resulting in truly strange effects not unlike those seen when unusual weather prevails (for example, the combination of a full moon and an Aurora Borealis). However, the fulfillment of the obligation will diminish these effects and eventually remove them altogether—as long as both parties are willing to offer full effort, one into giving and the other into accepting the gift._  
  
Draco sat back and smiled at the bookshelf, then marked his place with a scrap of parchment and shut the tome gently. It was obvious that Potter wouldn’t be able to ignore the bonds tying them together much longer, not if he liked living.  
  
He would have to accept two gifts from Draco, and offer him one in return, as well as continuing with his investigation of the threats against the Malfoys from their unknown enemies.  
  
Draco spent the rest of the evening playing with Scorpius and entertaining himself with thoughts of what “gifts” he could give Potter. It was the most fun he’d had in ages, and he went to sleep that night with a smile on his face for the first time in—forever, actually.  
  
*  
  
 _“I don’t really care that you’re sleeping with him,” Ron growled. “Not for Ginny’s sake, I mean. She’s given up on you. But—Harry, you can’t expect me to accept a_  Malfoy _into my house!”_  
  
This isn’t real, this isn’t real, I’m in love with Ginny and have kids with her, I would never date Draco—  
  
 _But the ponderous force of the dream descended on him, and swept away his objections. The Harry he was in the dream, nineteen and stubborn and proud as a hippogriff, stepped forwards and took over from the rational voice of his actual self. The adult Harry could only watch helplessly from the back of his own head.  
  
“You’ll accept him into your house, Ron,” he said, “because if I’m going to hold my birthday celebration here, then I want Draco able to attend. You don’t have to get along with him or praise him to his face. But you’ll be marginally polite to him, and you’ll let him in here.”  
  
Ron rubbed a hand over his face. Hermione sighed and pushed a quill back behind her ear. She agreed with Harry, but she had already said that she wouldn’t try to make peace between them over Malfoy, that it was something Harry and Ron needed to work out for themselves.  
  
Harry wished it wouldn’t be so hard. Ron and Hermione’s kitchen was a pleasant place, decorated with the various awards Hermione had already started earning as she began to set up the Blood Reparations Department and the Order of Merlin a grateful Ministry had awarded Ron for his part in destroying the locket Horcrux—though the number of people in the know was still rather small, and so they’d vaguely stated it was for “services to the wizarding community.” Light came in through a tiny window, but Hermione’s spells enhanced it so that they practically seemed to be standing outdoors. He could imagine Draco here so easily, light glinting off his hair, exchanging amicable sneers with Ron while he argued with Hermione over how much certain pure-blood families should pay to the Muggleborns they’d tortured. He didn’t know why Ron’s imagination worked more slowly.  
  
“You know I love you, Harry,” Ron said lowly. “But if it means having_ him  _here…I don’t know, maybe you should have your party in the Manor after all.”  
  
Hermione cut in before Harry could speak, and in a way that Harry had never expected. In one smooth movement, she pulled her quill from behind her ear and stuck the sharpened tip in Ron’s hand.   
  
“OW!” Ron howled, holding his bleeding hand to his mouth. His words emerged muffled from around it, but recognizable. “Hermione! You stabbed me!”  
  
“I’ve been patient, Ron,” Hermione said, disregarding this entirely. “But this is ridiculous. Harry’s just asking for the possible, not the miraculous. You know you can get along with Malfoy if you just_ try.  _So we are inviting our best friend and his partner here for Harry’s birthday, and that is final.” She turned primly away from her husband and nodded to Harry. “I hope that—Draco—“ she only grimaced slightly before she said his name, which Harry thought was impressive “—will understand this bargain applies to him too, mind,” she said warningly. “If Ron makes an effort and Draco doesn’t, I will be very upset.”  
  
Harry smiled. No one wanted to make Hermione upset; Draco had already confessed to Harry how scared he was of her. “Thanks, Hermione. I’ll tell him.”_  
  
*  
  
Harry opened his eyes. He spent some time reassuring himself that the sheets beneath him were the plain cotton Ginny had always favored, not silk, and that the figure beside him was definitely  _female_ , with red hair, not male with blond.  
  
But his scars burned, and his breathing came short, and the sense of the incredible reality of the dream lingered with him still. He could feel, like a ghost of sensation, his happiness that Hermione had intervened and told Ron off, and his glee at the thought of going back to Draco and telling him of the bargain.  
  
He passed a hand across his eyes, and grimaced.  _I’m almost to the point of agreeing with Malfoy about doing what we can to end this. I don’t want to be unfaithful to Ginny, even in my dreams._  
  
When he heard a tapping on the window, for a moment he wondered if time had looped back and somehow he was living, again, the night when Narcissa had owled him to demand payment for the life-debt. But the burning in his scars continued to fade, instead of flaring up again. He opened the window and let the owl in with a certain wariness anyway; he couldn’t help it.  
  
This owl wasn’t the same one that had carried Narcissa’s message. She was smaller, black, with bright cold eyes. She held out her leg to him with dainty precision, and Harry again took the letter and entered the corridor to read it. He thought he heard Ginny sigh as he went, but when he glanced back, she hadn’t moved.  
  
The letter was as small as the owl, and as to the point.  
  
 _Mr. Potter:_  
  
I have information to convey to you, information that my mother-in-law and husband would not want to reach you, but which I feel you should know.  
  
Marian Malfoy.


	6. A Life Augmented

“If you’re sure it’s safe.” Ginny’s eyes were shadowed when she handed the letter back to him.  
  
“I’m not  _entirely_  sure,” Harry admitted, turning the letter around in his hand and staring at the signature. The only thing he could say for sure was that it wasn’t Malfoy’s—well, Draco’s—or Narcissa’s.   
  
 _I hate associating with so many people named Malfoy. It means I have to think of them by their first names._  
  
“Then I don’t think you should go,” said Ginny firmly, folding her arms. “You’re already giving up time that you can’t really afford to give up to them, Harry. I know that Teddy would have liked to spend another hour with you yesterday, and you could have visited longer with Andromeda if you didn’t need to run back home to relieve George. And you could have stayed home with the kids for the morning if you hadn’t had to go to Malfoy Manor.”  
  
Harry nodded. What Ginny said was all true, of course. He really didn’t have a reason to be at the Malfoys’ beck and call, life-debt or not. He could spend some days doing research on the case and seeking an outside perspective that might give him details Narcissa had forgotten or “forgotten.”  
  
But he felt a dull ache of foreboding behind his eyes when he looked at Marian’s letter. He’d ignored it before, and usually at his peril. It was like his instinct for danger; it wasn’t always  _right_ , but it tended to lead him in the direction of something that was.  
  
“I’m going to answer it,” he decided.  
  
Ginny huffed out a breath.  
  
Harry embraced her with one arm, holding the other hand out so that he could continue to study the letter. “I won’t go alone,” he reassured her. “Molly is watching Rose and Hugo today, since she hasn’t got to spend much time with Hugo yet. Ron can come with me.”  
  
He felt the relaxation enter Ginny even though he still didn’t look at her. He smiled and kissed the top of her head. Ginny trusted her brother, more than she had ever done during the war.  
  
But Ron had proved himself well enough since then, working part-time in the Blood Reparations Department and as a consultant with the Auror Department, dispensing advice about curses, unusual Dark magic, and pure-blood customs that the new influx of Muggleborn recruits wasn’t familiar with. He had proven to have a good memory when Hermione wasn’t trying to stuff it full of homework. He picked up facts from everywhere—Hermione’s lectures, Bill’s discussions of his curse-breaking, Molly’s gossip, his heated conversations with Ginny about Quidditch and the Holyhead Harpies’ chances of making it to the top of the league—and had learned to put them together into new and interesting configurations. Harry thought he really shouldn’t be surprised. After all, Ron had always been a good chess player.  
  
And he was still as good with a wand as ever, and as fiercely devoted to Harry.  
  
“Write her back, then,” Ginny murmured. “Just make sure that you meet in a public place. Tell her that you’re ready to use glamours if necessary, but not to meet her alone.”  
  
“Yes, Mum,” Harry mocked lightly as he turned to find parchment and ink.  
  
Ginny caught his arm, and he felt bad about it when he looked into her face. Her lips were still pinched in the sort of smile that said she was trying very hard not to worry and did it anyway.  
  
Harry kissed her on the forehead. “I promise, Gin,” he said solemnly, “no wild stunts. And no going out of my way to help the Malfoys just because I owe them a life-debt, either. I  _promise_. But I really do think that, the more I learn about this situation, the sooner I can be done with it.”  
  
This time, he received a softened smile for his efforts, and he went to fetch writing materials and gather up a whimpering Lily on the way.  
  
*  
  
Draco was spreading marmalade on his toast when he felt a stare on the back of his neck. Since he also knew who it was—Narcissa always announced her entrance into a room immediately, due to her desire to make her son pay attention to her—he simply raised an eyebrow and continued eating. The  _Daily Prophet_  was spread in front of him, but he found nothing of interest there. Neither the pure-blood supremacist groups or the Muggleborns who thought  _they_  should rule the wizarding world had made an interesting move lately. That was one reason why the Aurors were so desperate to link Draco to the Malfoy crest found at the scene of Goldstein’s murder, despite knowing that it was a stupid clue.  
  
Marian coughed delicately, at last, as though she thought Draco had gone long enough without regarding her. Draco glanced up, then turned around, making sure his face reflected his lack of interest in the situation.   
  
In truth, she had managed to catch his attention by the fact that she wore outdoor robes, expensively light garments meant for extensive travel in the summer heat, and that she had applied a glamour to her features which made them sharper, turned her eyes blue, and striped her hair with waves of strawberry blonde, while another illusion concealed her burn scars. But Draco would be damned if he showed that attention. His wife would never know how much he had changed overnight, if he could help it. She would try to remove all the books on life-debts from the library if she knew, just to spite him.  
  
“Did you want something?” he drawled, in the tone of his that he knew irritated her most.  
  
She glanced away from him, and her mouth tightened. “I want to do some shopping,” she said, petulant. “I need new shirts, and Scorpius should be measured for his first set of formal robes.”  
  
Draco’s amusement at the situation evaporated. “You are  _not_  taking my son past the wards.”  
  
“I only said what  _should_  happen, not what would.” Marian turned one hand palm-up in front of her. “I had one of the house-elves take his measurements, and I’ll bring them to Madam Malkin’s. As you can see, I’m under a glamour, so I doubt that I’ll attract the notice of our enemies.”  
  
As far as Draco was concerned, his enemies could take his wife and welcome. But there was the safety of the rest of them to worry about, and Marian might be able to bring outsiders through the wards, so he lodged a token protest. “And this errand can’t wait? Or we could send one of the elves—“  
  
“I’ve been waiting a month,” Marian snapped. “And the elves never bring back anything properly sized, you know that.”  
  
Draco knew that. House-elves were wonderful with cooking, cleaning, and tending to clothes their masters had already chosen, but their creative capacity, if they had any, was badly skewed. They were as likely to bring back gigantic shirts or robes sized to fit them if they were sent.  
  
“If you must leave, do so.” He turned back to the paper and his breakfast, listening as Marian stalked towards the door. “Perhaps the air will clear your head and make you leave behind any ridiculous thoughts about taking Scorpius with you.”  
  
His wife paused on the threshold of the dining room, and turned to give him a long look. Draco returned it with equanimity. Perhaps she had heard some of the spark in his voice after all.  
  
But if she had, she obviously chose not to confront him about it, slipping out of the room. Draco heard her speaking to one of the house-elves, and then the front door of the Manor opened and closed.  
  
He ate for a few more minutes, estimating the number of strides it would take her to reach the edge of the Manor’s anti-Apparition wards. Then he stood, dusting crumbs from his hands. Bitty, the youngest of the house-elves, appeared with a pop and took his plate with two deep bows. Draco hoped absently that Bitty would lose those servile mannerisms as it grew older. He preferred elves who knew their place and did not make too big a fuss about it; the best were the ones who inflicted even their self-punishments quietly.  
  
He had as much skill with his wand—more—as Marian did. He could also apply a glamour, and leave the Manor undetectably.  
  
And he wanted to see where his wife went.  
  
He had done nothing like this in years. But that seemed all the better reason to do it now.  
  
*  
  
Harry’s letter had been returned extraordinarily fast. Marian had agreed to meet in one of the smaller food shops in Diagon Alley, which had an outdoor eating area and served small cups of tea, chocolate, or fruit slices. Harry traveled there under a powerful glamour that both made his features appear utterly ordinary and deflected attention from his face. It was more effective than spells that changed the color of his hair or eyes, which he could never manage properly anyway, and it was double protection against others peering at his brow in search of the lightning bolt scar.  
  
He sipped his chocolate, and scanned the crowds passing him with an idle air, as if he were waiting for a wife or child to hurry back from a shopping expedition. He was aware of Ron in the meantime, the trademark Weasley red hair concealed under a hood, “asleep” on a bench across the street.  
  
It was nearly twenty minutes past the time Marian had agreed to meet him, and Harry had his hand on his wand, when a woman with an intriguing mixture of red, blonde, and brown in her hair paused in front of his table and murmured, with the distracted air of one recognizing an old acquaintance, “Harry?”  
  
“Marian?” he asked, afraid to speak her last name aloud here. He still didn’t know enough about the enemies behind this, and reading over the documents Narcissa had given him only increased his frustration. Did  _no one_  in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement have the slightest idea what people might have both a grudge against the Malfoys and the money and courage to carry out a war against them? Blood magic practitioners didn’t come cheap, partially since their art was, well, illegal.  
  
Marian summoned his attention back to her by smiling and dropping into the seat opposite him. Harry didn’t have to look across the street to know that Ron had adjusted his position so he could watch them both. “Yes, that’s me,” she said. “And I meant exactly what I said in my letter.”  
  
“Excellent,” Harry said, and forestalled her attempt to tell him immediately by turning and smiling at the server who had stepped towards them. He didn’t want to draw attention, and a woman without a drink in this place, speaking in an agitated and excited manner to the man across from her, might do it. “She’ll have something to drink,” he assured the server, who smiled and bowed. “What would you like?” he added to Marian.  
  
She blinked for a moment, then shrugged impatiently. “Tea will do.”  
  
The server then questioned her about what kind of tea she wanted, and she waved one hand and chose the first he named in a clipped manner. That increased Harry’s suspicion that she’d never done anything like this before. One thing he had picked up from Ron  _and_  from Hermione, who had created the Blood Reparations Department against the opposition of several powerful people in the Ministry, was that you didn’t let the importance of your mission make you careless and forgetful. Act casual and relaxed and  _normal_  when on an assignment, and other people were much more likely to ignore you—which would lead, in turn, to them not noticing important things. Aurors could get away with using force, but they had official backing.  
  
“You wanted to tell me something?” Harry asked, leaning towards Marian and covering her hand with his. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to look like lovers or good friends to anyone who might glance at them.  
  
Marian’s fingers flexed beneath his, but she didn’t try to draw her hand away, for which Harry was grateful. “Yes,” she whispered. “There is something about the night of the murder only I know, and which Draco would never tell you.”  
  
 _Notice the hatred with which she says his name_ , Harry noted to himself, dispassionately.  _Ron would tell me not to take anything she says on trust._  
  
Lucky for him he had his own personal Ron in the back of his head, and that he had smiled at enough cameras to present a welcoming, sympathetic expression to Marian now.  
  
“Tell me,” he said.  
  
*  
  
The man sitting on the other side of the table from Marian was difficult to look at, but Draco knew him for all that. He would have known him on the other side of a dark room at midnight, from the frisson of awareness that raced up his spine, and the sudden soft burning of the scars on his chest.  
  
 _Potter._  
  
Licking his lips, Draco adjusted his seat so that he could see them a bit better. He’d chosen a table behind the Sweets’n’Eats—and wasn’t  _that_  a name fit to make him vomit?—so that he was less likely to be observed by Potter and whatever protection he’d brought along. Surely he wouldn’t be stupid enough to meet a woman he didn’t know and had no reason to trust by himself.  
  
At least, Draco hoped he wouldn’t. Remembering some of the things Potter had got up to during his Hogwarts days, he had to admit that he wasn’t sure of Potter’s exact level of  _intelligence_. Granger had always been there to ensure that he wouldn’t have to answer too many questions.  
  
Draco spent a moment gazing into his glass, at least to all appearances, though he was in truth performing a complicated spell with his wand beneath the table. A moment later, all the noise around him grew almost unbearably sharp. Draco gritted his teeth, knowing that particular effect only lasted a short time.  
  
And so it did. The noises fluctuated around him like a rushing wave, and a moment later he was hearing only Potter and Marian’s conversation. It was a somewhat risky spell, since he would be all but deaf to anyone who asked him a question, but it was also a spell that Potter—or Granger—was unlikely to have countered, since an ancestor of Draco’s had developed it and kept it within the family.  
  
“Tell me,” Potter was just saying, and even under a glamour Draco thought he could feel the intensity of his eyes. He felt a responding intensity surge in his chest.   
  
And they weren’t near any mirrors. Draco had to admit it was Potter who had called up his spark, made him interested in life again, made him determined to find some way to wrench himself free of the curse that currently limited him. He needed a challenge, and there had not been enough of one in these past few years. His wife’s passive hatred was not a wall he could batter against, and she wouldn’t argue with him, unlike Potter in school.  
  
 _Could that be the reason that I keep seeing visions of us together? Because he’s the person who most challenges me?_  
  
Draco snorted to himself. Even if that were true, he had no intention of abandoning his comfortable home and his son, or even his marriage, for Potter. He wouldn’t mind if they fucked now and then—the marriage vows didn’t object to that—but Potter would never enter his soul.  
  
Marian said, her voice low and yet sharp, “The night the Goldstein girl was murdered, I went to Draco’s room. We don’t share a bed anymore, you understand.” Her eyes were lowered, but Draco knew she would be looking up from under the lashes, and her voice was almost—coy. Almost appealing. Draco snorted again.  _And she thinks she’ll sway Potter, Saint Potter, Devoted-to-His-Wife Potter, with this transparent ploy?_  “But there are, now and then, odds and ends that find their way from my rooms to his, and I have to fetch them.”  
  
“What was the odd or end this evening?” Potter’s control over his voice had improved, at least. It sounded cold and smooth, like a pane of glass, and not prone to giving anything more away. Draco had to grudgingly admire him, though he wondered why Potter had so openly showed his anger when he came to the Manor. Perhaps the incident with their fading had rattled him enough to do so.  
  
 _Perhaps_  I  _rattled him enough to do so._  
  
“A hairbrush,” said Marian. “Made of chestnut wood, with silver backing. I’ll be happy to show it to you if you like.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. Marian did indeed possess such a hairbrush, but by itself, that didn’t prove anything.  
  
Potter seemed to agree, or at least Draco thought he saw skepticism in the way he tilted his head. “So you went to find it. And what did you find there that made you suspicious of him?”  
  
“It was more what I  _didn’t_  find.” Marian sat up and pushed her hair back behind her ear with one hand. Draco recognized the sign. She was preparing to tell some dramatic truth. She had done it the evening she ended up trying to take Scorpius from him, too. “Draco should have been in the room.” She paused for even more dramatic effect. “Instead, he was gone.”  
  
Draco frowned.  _I was at home—  
  
Oh, bloody hell._  
  
He  _had_  been at home, but in a part of the Manor that Marian had never been granted access to, and in fact had no idea existed. He’d been walking the catacombs past the remains of his ancestors, morbidly wondering if, when they laid him here with the rest, the dead would be proud of him, and welcome him home. More to the point, would his  _son_  be proud of him?  
  
No outsider had ever entered the Malfoy burial chambers. Even those who were part of the family by marriage and not blood were only allowed down on immense sufferance. Draco could not prove Marian’s tale false without also revealing a cherished secret.  
  
He had not thought it would be a problem before, because he had spent only an hour in the crypts. Marian and his mother had known very well that he was at home from seven in the evening until midnight, and that he’d spent a good portion of the time playing with Scorpius.  
  
But that missing hour would look bad for him, if Potter chose to believe his wife. After all, someone could have killed Esther Goldstein in that timeframe, if he had used the right amount and kind of magic.  
  
Draco prepared himself for Potter’s widening eyes.  
  
*  
  
Harry didn’t need a Ron in his mind or a Hermione at his shoulder to tell him that Marian had planned for her information’s impact on him to be stronger.  
  
It simply  _wasn’t_ , however. He had spent enough time investigating cases of pure-blood “harassment” of Muggleborns for the Blood Reparations Department that he was no longer inclined to believe someone else simply because they believed themselves. Sometimes the harassment turned out to be real, or even the work of a supremacist group; often enough, it turned out to be a misunderstanding or a sincere effort on the pure-blood’s part to learn about Muggle culture which had simply gone too far. Hermione would write another document recommending cross-cultural classes and perhaps even start one that only the most pathetically eager pure-bloods would attend, while Muggleborns fought being exhibited like stuffed animals at a museum.  
  
And this—  
  
 _Well. A missing hour. And I have to give even Malfoy the benefit of the doubt, since I don’t think he’s a killer._  
  
“That’s interesting,” he said, and kept his voice and face deliberately as expressionless as he’d done so far. “However, that doesn’t  _prove_  that your husband killed Goldstein, does it?”  
  
Marian blinked a bit, and sat up. “Well—it doesn’t,” she said. “But it doesn’t look good for him. I can promise you that he never told the Aurors who came to question him about that missing hour.”  
  
“And you never did, either?” Harry couldn’t fathom why she hadn’t. That would have been in an official context, and if she really wanted to betray and shame her husband, as seemed likely, the best place would be in front of several Aurors who probably had bad memories of the war and the part the Malfoys had played in it.  
  
“Contrary to what you may think,” Marian said, her eyes darkening a bit, “I don’t want my family to become the center of a scandal. I’d like my son to be the heir to what he’s owed without laboring under the stigma that his  _father_  and grandfather carried.”  _Yes, she hates him_ , Harry thought.  _With a good bit of contempt mixed in, too_. “The Aurors would have taken the opportunity to tarnish everyone who bore the name of Malfoy. I think you can separate Draco from his family.” She looked directly at him, eyes wide with appeal now, instead of flirtatiously lowered. “And with your testimony that Narcissa and Scorpius and I did nothing wrong, the public is more likely to believe you. The Aurors wouldn’t bother giving that testimony.”  
  
Harry cocked his head thoughtfully.  _I can rule out her conspiring against her mother-in-law and her son, I think. She’s not a good liar, and so I doubt she contacted those blood mages and whoever else might have tried to harm her family. Unless she went too far with people she trusted, in trying to throw Draco to the wolves. And now those wolves are turning on her._  
  
It wasn’t a possibility he could rule out yet, so he simply said, “What you’ve told me is interesting, and no, I doubt that Draco would have confessed it to me.” The name _Draco_  felt far too familiar in his mouth; he’d moaned it in countless dreams. Harry suspected that using  _Malfoy_  right now would feel too much like an attack to Marian, though, since she’d asserted her right to claim the name. “However, I hope you’ll understand that I can’t march off to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement just yet.”  
  
That drew a reluctant smile from her. “I understand.” She paused a moment. “But you won’t take what he says for granted, either?”  
  
“Certainly not,” Harry said. He had labored too long and hard to keep his dreaming life separate from his true life to give Draco the trust that part of his brain urged him to give. That part of his brain was the one that dreamed, and knew and loved a man who didn’t exist in this world. “I’ll continue to investigate, and try to catch who did this, whether it’s Draco or someone else. I promise you that I’m fully committed, and not only because of the life-debt. No one should have to die the way Esther did, and no one should have to live in the fear that your family has.”  
  
“Thank you,” Marian said, and kissed the back of his hand, and then stood and walked away from the table. Her stride seemed more relaxed now. Harry approved. She would look like a lover casually departing to anyone who watched, and the most anyone might suspect them of was adultery.  
  
He rose to his feet, and paused for a moment as the scar above his heart caused by the locket seemed to burn. But when he glanced around, he could see no sign of Malfoy—and anyway, how did  _he_  know that the scars would burn when Malfoy drew near? He didn’t. He had only met the man for the first time in ten years yesterday, and he didn’t know anything about the magic that was trying its best to control both their lives.  
  
He caught Ron’s eye subtly, inclined his head, and Apparated out. He would want to talk it over with his friend when they both returned home.  
  
*  
  
Draco sat back with a long sigh and folded his hands behind his head. His hair was gray in the glamour, and he grimaced as it sifted through his fingers. It even  _felt_  old.  
  
But at least he knew what his wife had told Potter. And he’d been witness to Potter’s polite refusal to accept what she said at face value.  
  
And to his declaration that he would keep searching, keep hunting.  
  
Draco had never thought they would receive that, not when his mother had tricked Potter into fulfilling his life-debt this way. It caused an odd satisfaction to flicker to life in the pit of his stomach.  
  
 _No matter what you might think, Potter, we’re tied in more than one way._  
  
He Apparated from his chair to his study in the Manor—being the heir of the family meant he could get around the wards—and once again reached for a book on life-debts, banishing the glamours with a wave of his wand. Should his wife look in on him when she returned from her “shopping expedition,” she would find him ensconced in research that looked no different from the desultory reading he was always doing.  
  
Certainly not the pose of a man who had managed to come partway back into his own.


	7. The Weapon of Honesty

“No,” Harry said, running his fingers in distraction over the pile of papers that covered the table in the library. “Al  _thought_  he was sick, but James had just crammed a bunch of food in his mouth and then pretended to vomit. You know it’s a trick he likes to play.”   
  
“Hm.” Ginny folded her arms and regarded him with a jaundiced eye, as if he hadn’t been sharing fully in the care of the children since they brought James home from St. Mungo’s. “And you’re  _sure_  James never had a fever at any point during the day? A cough? He didn’t complain about any headaches?”  
  
“I’m sure.” Harry turned and smiled up at his wife, aware as he did so that he was just waiting for her to leave the room so that he could subsume himself in the Malfoy mystery once more. Her concerns irritated him. He held his tongue for a moment, though, reminding himself that Ginny had been at practice all day, and thus not there to see the devilish grin on James’s face after he’d convinced his little brother that he was sick and about to die. “I know Rosie’s sick, but Ron doused himself with anti-infection spells before he visited me yesterday. Hermione would never have forgiven him if he didn’t.” Harry shuddered slightly. An angry Hermione was never good news for anyone.  
  
“Well. If you’re sure.” Ginny’s fingers tapped her elbow, but a little more slowly than they had done. “Is dinner ready?”  
  
Harry pulled his attention firmly away from the papers and stood. “Yes. Just simmering under a Stasis Spell while the children nap.” He had made a dinner of odds and ends, the sort of thing Ginny liked to have when coming home after a practice: potatoes, strips of meat mixed in with vegetables, soft bread with butter, and a thin soup of the kind that Aunt Petunia had once prided herself on cooking for hours. It was easier with magic, of course.  
  
“Good.” Ginny took his arm and led him out of the library, though she hesitated near the doorway, peering into his face. Harry looked inquiringly back. He was hungry, too, and he could hear Al starting to fuss down the corridor, as he often did when he woke from a nap in the middle of the day and found himself alone.  
  
“I just don’t want you to spend too much time on these documents of the Malfoys’,” Ginny said, tightening her hold on him. “It makes me feel distant from you, in a way that I don’t when I know you’re thinking about Ron and Hermione, or your job.”  
  
Surprised, Harry turned and hugged her. “Gin,” he said into her ear, “you know that if I’m not taking care of you enough—“  
  
“It’s not that.” Ginny’s eyes flickered briefly up to his scar, and then away. She had gone to a great effort since the war not to look directly at it. Harry had thought she did it because she knew how uncomfortable the stares in Diagon Alley and other public places made him, but it seemed she might have her own reasons for it, after all. “At least, not wholly. I—I don’t want to find out what will happen if you walk far enough away from us.”  
  
Harry opened his mouth to ask what she meant, and then shut it and settled for kissing her forehead.   
  
He should have seen it before. He and Ginny never talked about the lack of mirrors in the house, or his dreams, or the burning of his scars, or anything else that could refer to the strange magic that ruled so much of his life. He knew it made Ginny uneasy, and he hadn’t wanted to cause her pain by discussing in detail what he did with Malfoy in his dreams.  
  
Now, for the first time, he realized that she actively  _feared_  what could happen if he paid too much attention to the curse, and, by implication, too much to the Malfoys. She could lose him, and not through any fault of her own, but because there was this strong unexplained influence pulling him in the other direction.  
  
Harry tightened his lips and gave a fierce little shake of his head. He would not do that to his wife. He would shut the Malfoy mystery out of his head except during the mornings, as he had promised. He would even more earnestly avoid mirrors and awakening Ginny in the night. And he would—  
  
 _You’ll approach this like an adult, won’t you?_  
  
Yes. He would have to.   
  
He would cease running and acting like a coward, the way that Malfoy had accused him of doing. He would discuss the matter with him frankly and openly, and refuse to allow the other man’s insults get under his skin. He would bring his unanswered questions and lay them before Malfoy, instead of sneaking about. Why hunt for information he couldn’t find when he could get it directly from the hippogriff’s mouth?  
  
Of course, he couldn’t  _trust_  everything that Malfoy said. But he could propose another solution, and since Malfoy was so in favor of being honest, he ought to agree to it.  
  
Harry’s mouth twitched. He would have to see George in the morning, before he went to the Manor.  
  
He kissed Ginny once more, and this time there was passion and strength behind the gesture. She looked up at him, and he saw she was both startled and pleased. That saddened him.  _Has it really been days since I made her believe that she’s the center of my life?_  
  
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I was a Gryffindor, right? Courage and honesty ought to be more my style than this creeping uncertainty. I’ll bull right ahead, and take the help that Malfoy offered me, and solve this mystery as soon as possible. Then I’ll have even more time to spend with my family, who deserve the lion’s share of my attention.”  
  
He didn’t think Ginny had kissed him so deeply since their few weeks of sunshine together at the end of sixth year. He kept one arm around her as they went to wake the children, more content than he had once imagined he could be.  
  
*  
  
Draco smiled slightly. The wards on the Manor had buzzed to let him know that someone was at the gates, of course, and again when Potter reached the door of the Manor, conveying an image to the side of his right eye. He had let those particular spells lapse for far too long, but he’d established them again yesterday. If he was to take a more active role in trying to disentangle the mystery that had engulfed him, he should also take a more active role in other parts of his life, including the defense of his family.  
  
He saw no need to leave the room and engage Potter in a duel of words that the coward would only attempt to slip out of, though. He was sitting with Scorpius right now, who had fallen asleep listening to another story. His body slumped back against Draco’s arms, his head half-dangling, the strands of blond hair around his face fluttering with soft snores. Draco was disinclined to move. Let Potter speak to his mother. He would ambush the man on the way out.  
  
That was part of the reason he was so startled when someone knocked softly, with an open palm, against the door of the nursery and he looked up to see Potter standing there, eyebrows raised.  
  
“Malfoy.” He spoke at just the right volume to let his voice carry and yet avoid waking Scorpius, and Draco was surprised until he remembered that Potter had children himself. “May I come in and speak to you? It’s important.”  
  
Draco hesitated a moment longer, then gave a curt nod .Loathe as he was to surrender his private time with his son, refusing now might defeat Potter’s courage, and he’d never take the chance again.  
  
Potter walked carefully across the nursery, obviously looking for scattered toys that weren’t there. His eyes flitted between the huge shelves full of books, the large and open trunks full of magical toys, and the cot guarded with shimmering wards. Probably taking note of the luxury and comparing it to whatever poor arrangements he’d made for his sons and daughter, Draco thought, concealing a sneer. He wondered if Potter would make some snide comment about spoiling children to him.  
  
But Potter’s eyes came back to Scorpius in just a few moments, and softened. In fact, he looked more at the boy than anything else in the room, and Draco felt a weird pride rise in his chest. Scorpius had been so protected, especially in the past month, that Potter was the first stranger who’d been anywhere near him (not counting the Healers who had attended on him at his birth and various childish illnesses since). And Potter was obviously smitten with him.  
  
“That’s your son?” he mouthed, when he stood next to Draco’s rocking chair.  
  
“It is,” Draco whispered back. “Transfigure something into a chair for yourself, won’t you? He’s rather pinning my wand at the moment.”  
  
Potter gave him an easy smile of complete understanding, and then selected a piece of dust from the carpet and Transfigured it into a small stool, deliberately lower than Draco’s chair. Draco raised one eyebrow, reluctantly impressed. Potter still wore relatively shabby robes, given what Galleons he could have commanded at any clothing shop in Diagon Alley, and his hair still looked as if it had never heard of a comb, but he was no slob at magic.  
  
“I’ve decided that you’re right, Malfoy.”  
  
Draco just stared. If the sight of Harry Potter in his son’s nursery was unexpected, then hearing those words was…unbelievable. He fought the temptation to look away, which might tell him if he’d accidentally stared into a mirror too long and come to think that the vision it portrayed was real.  
  
“Excuse me?” he said at last.  
  
“Oh, come off it and don’t look like that,” Potter muttered, but reached into a pocket of his robe and withdraw a vial that sparkled with clear liquid. Draco wondered what Potter wanted with a vial full of water, but understood in seconds as Potter said, “This is Veritaserum. I borrowed it from George Weasley, since he uses it in some of the pranks he makes. I can promise you that it’s quite genuine; I tested it this morning. I’d like you to agree to take some while I question you about the night Goldstein was murdered, and your potential involvement in it.”  
  
“You  _what_?” Draco said, again a few moments after he should actually have answered. He hoped the sheer spittle from his spluttering didn’t splash on Scorpius’s forehead and wake him.  
  
“I’m tired of not getting answers.” Potter’s glasses sparked as he leaned forwards, but it didn’t look as thought his brilliant eyes needed the help. “I can’t find the information I need to know about this murder, and then your wife came to me yesterday and offered to betray your deepest darkest secrets, which turned out to consist solely of the fact that you were absent from home for an hour on the night Goldstein died. And I’ve thought more and more about what you said concerning—well, mirrors, and the fading that happened to us.” He cleared his throat, and his face flushed slightly, but his voice was determined. “That’s what you’re right about. We need to address it, and to end it if we can. I’m tired of feeling I can’t call my life my own.”  
  
Draco blinked again and again. He would have reached out and slid his fingers down the skin of Potter’s wrist, just to make sure of his reality, but the reality of Scorpius kept his hands rather pinned.  
  
“When you decide to charge,” he said at last, “you spare no effort.”  
  
Potter gave him a small smile. “Will you agree to the Veritaserum, Malfoy? And then we’ll work together on both mysteries. I pledge you my full cooperation in return for your agreement to drink this.” He gently sloshed the vial of Veritaserum back and forth.  
  
“And if I say that I want more than that?” Draco cocked his head and let a sly undertone drop into his voice. Potter wouldn’t trust him if he agreed right away, after all. “That I need your help in something else?”  
  
“It would depend on what this other thing was, of course,” Potter said, sitting back. “And how long it took.”  
  
Draco studied him for a moment in silence. Then he decided that he might as well be honest in return. It would cost him too much with most other people in his life, even his mother—whom he had tried to talk to honestly about the mirrors for years, earning only her disbelief and sadness in return—but Potter was, Draco suspected, literally incapable of using the information against him.  
  
“I want my life back,” he said.  
  
Potter blinked. Then he said cautiously, “Mrs. Malfoy did tell me that you’d spent rather a long time in the house these past few years. And I know that you don’t have an occupation now, and that you didn’t have good standing after the war. But after we stop the curse that’s working on us through the mirrors and my dreams—“  
  
 _Your dreams, Potter? How interesting._  
  
“—I don’t see what else you would require from me. You could go forth and get a job if you  _wanted_  to, or you could remain home with one less thing to worry about.” Potter glanced at Scorpius, and once more his face softened. “It wouldn’t be so horrible to stay with your son, would it?”  
  
“Have you wondered why Marian was so eager to betray me yesterday?” Draco spoke the words without thought. For the first time in ten years, Slytherin instinct had surged up inside him—the same instinct that had made him remain at Hogwarts and try to capture Potter in the Room of Hidden Things. That had worked out disastrously, but Draco tended to think his intuition was sound. It was only his execution that sometimes lacked finesse.  
  
“I didn’t think to ask,” Potter said, and readjusted his position on the chair as if it were beginning to hurt his tailbone. “I tend to try and stay out of other people’s marital disputes. That’s good advice learned from hard experience, believe me.”  
  
“She was happy with me until Scorpius was about five months old.” Draco knew he was taking a risk; Potter might not accept the idea of using magic on a baby any more than Marian did. But he was going to be working too closely with the man to keep many secrets, especially one this important, and once again, given how much Potter favored honesty, it would look better if Draco told him than if Marian managed it later. “Then it became clear Scorpius was going to look like her, or like a mixture of us, instead of like a Malfoy. The Malfoys have been blond and had blue or gray eyes for hundreds of years. But Scorpius was born with dark hair, and his eyes might have been hazel or green as easily, which wasn’t acceptable.” He glanced up at Potter. “No offense to people with green eyes intended.”  
  
Potter nodded tersely. He was literally leaning forwards on the edge of his chair. Draco felt a soft bloom of warmth in his chest, that he could command this man’s attention so effortlessly.  
  
“My mother convinced me to work magic on Scorpius, to change his appearance.” He ran his hand through his son’s fine, and utterly pale, hair again. There wasn’t a trace of black or brown showing. He had done a fine job, if he  _did_  say so himself. “I would never have used the spell if there was the slightest danger to my son, Potter. I love him.”  _And that was not so very hard to say_. “But Marian was convinced the magic might hurt a baby. She tried to take him from me and run. Only the house-elves stopped her in time.”  
  
“And now?” Potter’s voice was edged with wariness.  
  
“He’s been kept behind wards since then, so his mother can’t touch him, though I can,” said Draco simply. “And Marian hates me.”  
  
*  
  
Harry gusted out a breath and blinked hard. He could see both sides of the argument. He  _knew_  what he would have done had Ginny taken one of the children and tried to abscond with them. On the other hand, he also knew what he would have done if Ginny was working magic he believed was harmful on a baby.  
  
But, of course, magic had been used constantly around James and the others from the moment they were born, and even  _on_  James when he was younger than Scorpius, to heal him from a dangerous sickness that had managed to crawl into his lungs. So Harry couldn’t take the position that Marian apparently had, that any kind of magic could hurt a baby. One merely had to be careful with it.  
  
 _And is an appearance-changing spell taking care?_  
  
“You said you want your life back,” he said, trying to wrench his brain away from contemplating the ethical difficulties of the Malfoy marriage. “Does that mean that you want help in separating from your wife? I’m not a solicitor, Malfoy, and not a barrister either.”  
  
Malfoy waved an irritated foot at him, since he couldn’t move his hands. “Not that. I can separate from my wife well enough on my own, if it comes to that. But I need the _energy_. I’ve been apathetic too long.”  
  
“And I give you energy?” It was true that Malfoy looked sharp and keen-eyed, not at all the listless wizard Narcissa described, but he had looked like that the first day Harry came to Malfoy Manor, too.  
  
“You do.” Malfoy smiled at him, and Harry caught his breath. This must be the smile he used when he wasn’t plotting revenge or trying to bully someone else. It lifted his cheeks high and made his eyes less tired and turned his face incredibly handsome, receding hairline and all.  
  
 _It looks exactly like the smile in my dreams._  
  
Harry put that idea away. He would  _not_  listen to the part of his brain that still urged him to trust Malfoy. It was out of the question.  
  
“You challenge me,” Malfoy said, and his voice was  _not_  husky, that was Harry’s imagination, and why did he have to have such a good imagination? “You give me something to stand up and fight towards. Remain my friend when this is done. Write me letters. Meet me for drinks. Yell at me when I do something that violates your stupid Gryffindor sensibilities. I honestly think that’s what I need.” He met and held Harry’s gaze. “Will you do that?”  
  
Harry swallowed. This was exactly the level of entanglement that he had wanted to avoid with Malfoy. Finish extricating him from guilt for the murder—which no one deserved—and work together to end the curse that hovered over their lives. That was well enough. But remaining in close contact with him, turning into a  _friend_ , giving him time and attention when all of that should go to his family…  
  
And then Harry pictured the life that Narcissa had told him Draco led. Locked in his house for fear of enemies and, well, fear; living with a wife who could hardly stand him; having no energy even to go along with his mother’s plans for him, which would have been the simplest thing to do; carrying no honor or distinction worth mentioning from the war, so that his past seemed as much a failure to him as his present.  
  
No one deserved that, either.  
  
And so it was a sense of the rightness of things, much more than a sense of obligation, that Harry met Malfoy’s eyes and nodded slightly. “You have yourself a bargain, Malfoy.” He held out the vial. “Now. Will you take the Veritaserum? I doubt that my wife expected me to be gone this long.”  
  
*  
  
Draco wanted to close his eyes and purr, though he found the mention of Potter’s wife rather jarring. He would have what he needed, but more than that, he would have what he  _wanted_. He could be friends with someone who did him good, and continuing friendship was what he wanted.  
  
 _If not something else_.  
  
But there were too many obstacles in the way for  _that_ , their marriages not the smallest among them, so Draco wouldn’t think about them right now. He simply smiled at Potter and said, “I still can’t move my arms from beneath Scorpius. I’ll need you to put the Veritaserum on my tongue, Potter.”  
  
Potter looked at him narrowly, but his gaze flickered down to Scorpius, and he nodded. As he stood, uncapping the vial, Draco added, “And you can’t ask me where I was for an hour on the night of Goldstein’s murder.”  
  
Potter huffed at him. “And why  _not_?”  
  
 _He could give his children lessons in whinging_ , Draco thought, amused. “Because it’s a family secret,” he said. “Given the other questions you can ask me, I should think you’d be able to find out the truth about my involvement in Goldstein’s murder easily enough, unless you’re as incompetent an investigator as you were a Seeker.”  
  
Potter opened his mouth to snap indignantly back, then seemed to notice his smile and peered hard at him again. “Malfoy?” he asked at last. “Did you just make a  _joke_?”  
  
“Of course.” Draco leaned his head against the back of the chair and widened his smile. “It’s the kind of things friends do, I’m told. And I quite tire of hearing you spit my surname out as if it were a rotten fruit. Call me Draco. Harry.”  
  
Potter nodded hesitantly, then took three drops of Veritaserum on his finger and held it out to Draco’s mouth. Draco swallowed obediently, but made sure to flick his tongue against Potter’s fingers before they could retreat. That provoked a tiny flush of his cheeks and a widening and dilation of his eyes that Potter probably wasn’t even aware of.  
  
 _His dreams are about the same things we see in the mirrors, I would be willing to wager_ , Draco thought, in the moments before a gentle blankness took over his mind.  
  
*  
  
 _Git_ , Harry thought, and wiped his finger free of saliva on his robes. Then he took a deep breath, to dismiss the feeling of wetness and smoothness against his fingertips from his mind, and asked, “Did you murder Esther Goldstein?”  
  
“No,” Draco said, staring at the far wall with glassy eyes. His hands had gone slack, and slipped a bit from around his son, who fussed. Without thinking about it, Harry reached out and folded them into place again, the way he would have held Al. Scorpius—poor kid—uttered a dreamy sigh and dropped back to sleep.  
  
“Do you know who did?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“What was the origin of the piece of cloth with the Malfoy crest found at the scene of her murder?”   
  
“It must have come from the Manor,” said Draco. “I can’t imagine that anyone else would want to carry it.”  
  
“How did it get there?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Would your wife have any reason to suspect you of the murder?”  
  
“She would try to blame me for it.” One’s voice was supposed to be a monotone under Veritaserum, but a twist to one or two of the words conveyed Draco’s disgust. “She wants sole custody of Scorpius, which she’ll never get otherwise. But that is the only reason.”  
  
Harry asked a few more questions about the information that Narcissa had given him, but it soon became apparent that Draco knew even less than his mother. He was innocent, and he had every reason to want to clear his name.  
  
Harry sighed, and paused. He could think of nothing else that might work to elicit information. He thought of asking about what Draco saw in the mirrors, but that was akin to taking advantage of a drunken man. He would wait until they could pool their resources and solve the problem of the curse together.  
  
“Thank you, Malfoy,” he said.  
  
“Draco,” the man said, and gave him that breath-catching smile again. “And you’re welcome, Harry. You’re welcome in the Manor at any time, in fact. I meant what I said about your becoming my friend.”  
  
Harry inclined his head with a nervousness he couldn’t hide, and then turned and moved rapidly across the nursery towards the door. He rubbed the mark of the locket above his heart, which had begun to burn again.  
  
His brain kept urging him to trust Draco. But his brain was foolish. He felt as if he  _knew_  this man, but he didn’t. He knew a deception, a dream-self, who shared a life with Harry that didn’t exist anywhere and never would exist. He would do well to remember that Draco was still a Slytherin, for all the friendliness he exuded—someone ruthless enough to keep his wife away from her child permanently when he decided he could no longer trust her.  
  
They might become friends of a sort. Harry would face the images in the mirrors in the course of figuring out how to stop them.  
  
And once he could stop them from coming, he need never think of them again. There was room in his life for many friends, but only one lover.


	8. A Shattering Moment

“I understand that you’ve been to see my nephew.”  
  
Harry looked up in startlement. He’d just settled Teddy in the back garden with James and Al under his supervision on toy brooms—for some reason, even though his godson had little patience with the two younger boys in other activities, he loved teaching them how to fly—and was rocking Lily, who had a bottle in her mouth and sucked enthusiastically. He hadn’t expected a visitor, and certainly not Andromeda Tonks, who had entered the house quietly.  
  
The past ten years had been kind to her, though sometimes Harry surprised an expression in her eyes that made him sure she was thinking of her husband or daughter. She moved more stiffly than before, and stared off into space for long periods of time, and had more of an air of reservation even than Narcissa Malfoy did. But she loved Teddy, and Harry was confident he had a good home with his grandmother.  
  
“Andromeda,” he said, and smiled at her, shifting Lily to his shoulder so he could put his hand out to shake hers. “I hadn’t realized it was so late. I’ll call Teddy.” He started to stand.  
  
Andromeda gestured for him to stay where he was—in a chair near the hearth in the large drawing room beyond the kitchen, the center of life in the house—and sat down across from him. “I came early on purpose, Harry. I wanted to know if it was true that you’d been visiting with my nephew and—“ Her mouth quirked for a moment, as if she’d bitten into a biscuit with too much sugar. “My sister.”  
  
Harry nodded slowly, then moved Lily about again as she fussed. She was done with the milk, so he patted her over his shoulder until she burped, and then stood her upright in his lap. More and more, she liked to be on her feet when she finished eating, her head turning slowly back and forth and her eyes moving over every object with a baby’s silent wonder. Harry tickled the soft folds of her neck while he wondered what else to say.  
  
“And how is Narcissa?” Andromeda asked at last.  
  
“Fine, from what little I saw of her,” Harry said. “Energetic.” He hesitated, then, because he still couldn’t figure out the purpose of Andromeda’s visit but thought this might be what she wanted to hear, added, “I don’t see her much, because I’m working mostly with Draco. He was the one accused of murder, after all.”  
  
“And you don’t think he did it?” Andromeda lifted her head, back straight, as if she would easily absorb the impact of a positive answer.  
  
“I don’t think he did, no,” Harry said firmly. “There are too many strange things about this case for me to believe that. The only evidence was a piece of cloth with the Malfoy crest on it found at the scene—entirely too convenient.” He had little compunction in telling Andromeda the details, since he doubted that she was either going to go to the press or to Malfoy Manor. She had tried to make up with Narcissa after the war, but her sister had rejected the reconciliation for reasons that Harry had never been comfortable inquiring about. “The Aurors are making no progress. And Draco’s alibi for the night Esther Goldstein was murdered is  _tight_.” Except for one hour, but Draco had answered Harry’s other questions too truthfully to permit him much suspicion. “He’s not violent, not a killer. Voldemort had to coerce him to torture people during the war.”  
  
Andromeda closed her eyes and nodded her head, with a small sigh of resignation. “Thank you, Harry. That does—make things easier.” She glanced towards the window that looked out on the Burrow’s back garden with a small smile. “And I don’t think I’ll fetch Teddy quite yet. He should have some time to play with his favorite cousins.”  
  
Harry smiled. Teddy called James, Al, and Lily his cousins even though that was true only distantly or by courtesy. He listened for a moment, and heard Teddy saying authoritatively, “You never fly that way, James, unless you want to fall from the broom and break your head open.”  
  
“Maybe I want to,” said James, to whom everything unfamiliar was a grand adventure, and who was probably picturing the piles and piles of sweets and presents he’d get from his parents if he was “sick.”  
  
 _I wish I was that young, sometimes_ , Harry thought, jogging Lily,  _and had never known what death was._  
  
But if he were that young, he could never have had his children, much less been a good father. There were compensations for every loss.  
  
Lily’s hair smelled sweet. Harry closed his eyes and lost himself in it.  
  
*  
  
Draco prepared himself for dinner with some smugness. It had been the best day he could remember in a long time. Marian had absented herself in her own bedroom, sulking; he’d won an argument with his mother; and he’d discovered more information about life-debts that could prove useful to dissolving the curse that connected him and Potter.  
  
None of the books stated it outright, but Draco had put the information together from the clues between the lines. Life-debts pulled least urgently when there was only one of them and they were fulfilled willingly and promptly. Add multiple life-debts, their fulfillment delayed for years, and Potter still only helping Draco’s family because Narcissa had asked him to…  
  
Draco grinned at the shrouded mirror. Perhaps he should tell Potter that they should share a bed for three nights, and that would fulfill the other three debts that hung between them. He might have to claim the debt that Potter owed him for not exposing him to his enemies when Greyback captured him first, but Potter would take the same payment for the debts Draco owed him once he realized how good Draco could make him feel.  
  
 _It will never happen_ , Draco thought, as he finished drawing on the soft formal robes that he was wearing to dinner that night to please his mother,  _but it’s fun to dream about. I wonder if the visions really did give me true hints as to his preferences?_  If they had, then he knew Potter had a sensitive neck and ears that he would make his first targets. Perhaps he should contrive to “innocently” blow on Potter when he made his next visit tomorrow morning, and watch what happened.  
  
He turned to the door of the loo, humming, and reached out to open it.  
  
It resisted him.  
  
Draco took a step backwards, his eyes narrowing, and drew his wand. Perhaps Marian had chosen this evening to play a joke on him. If so, he was less appreciative of it than she had no doubt hoped.  
  
He cast  _Finite Incantatem_ , and then the Opening Charm. The door remained firmly locked when he rattled it—no,  _stuck_. The handle didn’t turn. The wood didn’t move. It was as if it had expanded to fit the frame. Yet when he cast a spell to reduce the action of water or air magic that could have caused the wood to warp and swell, they didn’t work, either.  
  
He shook his head and resigned himself to calling his mother for help. It was humiliating, seeing the disapproval in her eyes—she was of the opinion that he should have been able to control Marian, and even live happily with her—but it was better than staying locked in the loo because he was too proud to do it.  
  
A buzzing filled his ears as he lifted his wand to cast  _Sonorus_  on his throat. Eyes narrowed further, Draco cast the spell anyway, then turned to see whether Marian had cast a wasp’s nest into the room with him, or something else equally ridiculous.  
  
The mirror beneath the covering shroud was vibrating.  
  
Draco backed up a step, forgetting for a moment that the door wasn’t open and he couldn’t simply leave. He swallowed twice, then aimed his wand at the mirror. He was capable of conjuring a Shield Charm, wasn’t he? He would simply hold off whatever threat might be coming from the mirror.  
  
Not that there was a threat coming from the mirror.  
  
The mirror continued to vibrate; Draco could feel the ripples traveling into the walls. He conjured the Shield Charm, unwilling to wait for whatever might be happening behind the cloth to actually happen.  
  
And then the cloth tore open, and the last thing Draco saw for what seemed to be eternity was a storm of glass shards flying at him. He threw his arm up in front of his face, instinctively, and felt slices open in his wrists and fingers and palm. The Shield Charm had not defended him.  
  
He screamed, and it echoed oddly in his ears.  
  
 _Oh, the_  Sonorus  _Charm, that’s right_ , he thought dazedly, and then pain came soaring on the heels of the shock. He thought he got off one more scream before blood loss dragged him into blackness.  
  
*  
  
Harry started when he heard a voice shouting his name from the Floo connection in the drawing room. Hardly anyone disturbed him and Ginny at dinner; Ron and Hermione knew the time and would wait to contact them unless it was a genuine emergency. Of course, it probably  _was_  an emergency. Harry had thrown himself out of his chair and run madly into the drawing room before Ginny even moved.  
  
He stopped dead, however, staring, when he realized that Narcissa Malfoy’s face was projecting from the fireplace. He started to shake his head, started to say something about how he had given his mornings to the Malfoys and he didn’t intend to give any more time; she had probably only contacted him to shriek about some Ministry insult, anyway. She had struck him as rather excitable.  
  
“My son has been wounded,” she interrupted his attempts at speech. Her eyes were far too wide, and there was a strange shine to them, like fever, but she was not yet weeping. “A mirror in his loo exploded, and the glass shredded his arm open. I have tried to staunch the wounds, but they will not stop bleeding. He keeps moaning your name.” She leaned back and stared at him expectantly.  
  
“Call St. Mungo’s,” Harry said, the first thing he could think of. “Can you do that?”  
  
Narcissa lifted her chin, and he saw a trace of her sister in her, after all. She had endured the years since the war with the same dignity and sense of loss that Andromeda had, he was now certain. “I will not let a stranger past my family’s wards at this critical time unless I have no other choice. And you misunderstand me. I can make the wounds stop bleeding for a time, but they open again a few moments later. These are magical wounds. And I believe—I believe that you may have something to do with them.” She turned her head to look over her shoulder, and then whispered, “Draco,” and propelled herself up from the hearth.  
  
Harry had only a moment to choose his course. He had no  _real_  choice, of course. Even if he and Malfoy hadn’t decided to become friends, even if this curse hadn’t concerned him, he could hardly leave an innocent man to die.  
  
He snatched a handful of Floo powder from the dish on the mantle, flung it into the flames, and shouted, “Malfoy Manor!” just before he stepped through, hoping the fact that Narcissa had contacted him meant that the way was open and he wouldn’t bounce back into his own drawing room stinging from the wards.  
  
He landed safely in an immense vaulted room at the Manor he hadn’t seen before, however, and choked in the soot and reeled with dizziness. Then he remembered what he had come for and staggered across the room towards one still form and one kneeling, frantically casting form.  
  
Harry tried not to knock into Narcissa as he rushed over to Draco, though he wasn’t sure he entirely succeeded. He could see blood flowing across Malfoy’s arms and robes from this near, and there were so many  _cuts_ , and here and there buried glass splinters flashed like the eyes of insects. Harry drew in a breath that sounded horrified even to himself.  
  
He had seen worse things when working for the Blood Reparations Department, and he had certainly seen worse things during the war. But in most of those cases, he hadn’t seen those people alive and well just the day before. This was more like—like Dobby’s death than anything else.  
  
He waved his own wand, muttering one of his inexpert healing charms, and heard Draco murmuring the same words over and over:  _Harry Potter. Harry Potter_. The notion that he might have caused this damage somehow made him feel worse.  
  
His left hand groped out and slipped into Draco’s.  
  
Gold burst inside him and out. His vision dimmed, and he seemed to be rushing down a vast tunnel that shone like light refracted in diamond patterns on water. His chest ached. His arms stung and burned fiercely, as if he had taken the glass on them.  
  
 _If I could have stood between him and the mirror…_  
  
The air in his mouth seemed to solidify, and Harry wondered for a moment if death was coming for him in turn, since he had made his impulsive wish to take the harm that had befallen Malfoy on himself. But the solidity was simple sweetness, melting and warm on his tongue. Harry blinked, and the golden vision vanished, and he was kneeling again above Draco, fingers entwined with his as if they had always done this.  
  
He would have thought the fading had begun again, but there was none of the same disorienting, terrifying feeling this time. There was only sweetness, and warmth around his lips when he inhaled, and a deep, violently beautiful scent when he exhaled. The scent was emanating from Draco—or was it emanating from him? He bent over Draco, staring at his arm, wondering if he had healed the skin over the splinters and shards of glass that were still stuck in the wounds.  
  
Draco’s arm was entirely free of blood. It was covered with a fine network of silvery scars, as faded as the words that Umbridge had made Harry carve into his skin with her quill. He stared at them in wonder and disquiet, and then noticed something fluffy and white resting in Draco’s hair. He reached out to pluck it away, before his conscious mind could convince him that it was glass Transfigured by the magic that had just taken them.  
  
It wasn’t glass, Transfigured or not. It was a single feather, so soft that it hurt him to touch it. An owl’s feather. Harry hadn’t forgotten the texture or the shape or the color from his days of owning Hedwig, though he had refused to make a pet of another owl since. He stared at the feather, and could think of absolutely nothing to say.  
  
“Mr. Potter?” Narcissa’s insistent voice dragged him back to reality. “What happened to my son? How did his wounds heal so quickly?”  
  
Harry shook his head, and brushed at Draco again. More feathers came off on his hand, prickling at his palm as they drifted away. He tried to free his tightly held left hand so that he could shoo them off, but Draco curled his fingers around it, and Harry couldn’t bear to deprive him of that comfort so soon after his probable death.  
  
“I don’t know, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said quietly, frowning at the man on the floor, and trying to downplay the concern that still raged through him.  _You don’t really know him. You didn’t know this would happen. Stop feeling guilty_. “But I think you have to accept the reality of the curse that plagues him now.”  
  
*  
  
It was the burning of his scars that woke Draco.   
  
He opened his eyes slowly. He was stunned to see the faint light of dawn making its way through his curtains. He had stared out that window often enough during the year when the Dark Lord made the Manor his headquarters to recognize the color of the sunrise, but he’d usually slept in later since he married.  
  
The memories came back then.  _The mirror. I—_  
  
And the soft burning that he had associated so long with the legacy of Potter’s spell came from his chest, but also from his left arm. And, come to think of it, his fingers were cramped, as though someone held them.  
  
He turned his head.  
  
Potter slumped in a chair next to the bed, snoring, his glasses jammed between his nose and his chin. His wand still rested in his lap. His left hand was tangled with Draco’s own, his fingers resting not far away from a spidery lacing of silver scars.  
  
Draco licked his lips. He thought he could piece together what had happened, scant though the clues were. The curse had locked him in the loo, to make sure that he would be wounded, and then shattered the mirror. The  _Sonorus_  Charm he’d cast on himself had alerted his mother when he screamed, or he might have remained the loo until he’d died of blood loss. She’d been able to rescue him because the curse had been done with him by then.  
  
Or—perhaps not quite. His mother must have contacted Potter, though Draco didn’t know what symptoms during his blood loss might have prompted her to do that, or whether Potter was simply the one outside person she trusted at this point. Potter had arrived and somehow saved Draco’s life, the way he was so good at.   
  
Had that created a fifth life-debt to tie them together?  
  
Draco did not want to think about the probable consequences of that.  
  
And now he had scars in two places on his body that reacted to the presence of the curse.  
  
Draco licked his lips again and shifted position, and that woke Potter. He sighed deeply and groaned, then lifted his head and massaged the back of his neck with his free hand. He tried to use two to do it, and only then seemed to realize that he still clasped Draco’s wrist. Draco saw the tide of color sweep over his cheeks, and realized that the mirrors had not lied about one thing. That really was the way Potter looked when he blushed: his eyelids fluttering as if he wanted to close them, his ears turning red just a moment later than the rest of his face.  
  
Of course, in Draco’s visions he had usually started to pant with pleasure first, or he was screaming in the middle of some magnificent row. He didn’t usually look _embarrassed_.  
  
“Morning, Draco,” he said. “I—how are you feeling?” He leaned to stare at the scars on Draco’s arm as if he didn’t know how they’d got there, either.  
  
“Curious,” Draco said, and stared pointedly at him.  
  
Harry mumbled out an explanation of last night’s events, looking even more embarrassed when he recounted how Draco had kept muttering his name. Draco didn’t see why he should look that way. Those words were what had made his mother summon Harry, and thus had saved his life.  
  
“But I don’t know what the scar means,” Harry finished, “or the feathers, or the scent I smelled. It was like—rotting roses, really.” His eyes narrowed, and Draco got a glimpse of the same stubborn Gryffindor he’d seen whenever they both chased the Snitch. “But I can promise that I’ll try to get to the bottom of this.”  
  
Draco nodded slowly. “Good. I think there’s some research that we should at least look into to counteract this curse.”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“Life-debts.” Draco raised an eyebrow when Harry made an incredulous little scoffing noise. “You don’t think so? There are four of them tying us, counting the one that you’re fulfilling right now for my mother. And since my mother thinks of herself as part of the Malfoys, that’s a debt that you owe me just as much as you owe her.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes, as if thinking over the memory of that year of the war, and then winced and nodded. “You’re probably right,” he said, and finally reached down to his glasses and pulled them back up his face. “We should look into it.” He hesitated for one moment, then added, “And the scars, though I’m afraid I don’t know why yours would burn along with mine.”  
  
“You have a curse scar,” said Draco, and glanced at the words he could see faintly cut into the back of Harry’s right hand. “And that—well, it must have been made with a cursed object, right? The scars on my chest come from a Dark Arts spell—“  
  
“And I have a mark on my chest from a Hor—I mean, a cursed object,” Harry said hastily, cutting short Draco’s attempt to ask what he had been doing with a prostitute. The dawning excitement glowing in Harry’s eyes was too good to tease him about, anyway. “And  _this_.” He turned his arm, and Draco made out the mark of fangs. “Voldemort’s snake bit me. She was a cursed object, too, in her own way.”  
  
“Then that leaves out only the mirror that scarred me like this.” Draco nodded at his arms. “Perhaps you could count it as an honorary Dark Arts object, since it was acting as the conduit of our own special curse.”  
  
Harry laughed aloud—not mockingly, but with the pleasure of discovery. Draco caught his eye again, and Harry grinned at him. Draco smiled back, and knew it was with genuine happiness on his own part. This putting together clues had an exhilaration to it. He could learn to like it.  
  
“Stay to breakfast?” he asked, when Harry’s stomach gurgled.  
  
Harry hesitated as if he would refuse, then smiled again and nodded. “I should. And since I give mornings to you lot anyway, I’ll get in some research with you before I go home. Just let me firecall Ginny. She must be going frantic with worry.”  
  
It was only when he shifted and drew his hand gently away that Draco realized neither of them had made an effort to let go of each other since he woke up.


	9. Breakfast at the Malfoys'

“Oh, Harry, thank God.”  
  
Harry felt guilt coil around his heart when he realized that Ginny’s face was tear-streaked, her red hair disordered as if she’d spent hours raking her fingers through it, and that she was reaching through the fire for his hand, which she grasped with almost cruel strength.  
  
“I thought Narcissa contacted you,” he said, stroking her fingers and kissing the back of her wrist. “She told me she would.”  
  
“She did,” Ginny said tersely, “but you know how little information there is to be had from a  _Malfoy_ , Harry.”  
  
“Or, at least, one who doesn’t want to talk to you,” Harry murmured, caught between defending Draco and hesitating because he didn’t know what Narcissa had done last night.  
  
Ginny took his words in the way he had intended them, at least. “Yes. And she didn’t want to talk to me. From the way she looked at me, a crushed insect on her shoe would have suited her better as a correspondent.” Ginny’s lips trembled, then tightened. “She only told me you were ‘resting,’ and then she shut down the Floo connection completely. No matter how much powder I threw in, Malfoy Manor was closed to me.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” said Harry, feeling a stab of irritation that Narcissa, who had condescended to take his help on this case, still didn’t think his wife good enough to talk to. “It was literally true, but she should have told you more.”  
  
“What  _happened_ , Harry?”  
  
Harry explained Draco’s wounds and his own odd reaction in a few brief words. Since he didn’t understand the source of the visions, or the sweet smells, or the owl feathers, he was thinking more of the argument that Ginny would offer when he told her he was staying at the Manor for the morning.  
  
Her reaction, however, was strange. She went white to the lips when he finished describing Draco’s thoughts on the life-debts, and whispered, “That’s just what I feared when you started going to the Manor.”  
  
“What?” Harry asked, baffled. Ginny certainly hadn’t said anything about scars or feathers.  
  
“I feared they would take you away.” Ginny’s eyes rose and clung to his, desolate. “You’re drifting further and further from me and the children, Harry. Can’t you  _feel_  it? Maybe that’s not what you intend, but it’s what’s  _happening_. You’re more interested and invested in figuring out this mystery than you are in spending an ordinary evening at home with me.”  
  
“I’m not—“ Harry shook his head helplessly. Ginny was so  _wrong_  that he didn’t know what to say if a flat denial wouldn’t convince her. It was true that he didn’t resent giving his time to Draco and Narcissa as he had a few days ago, but that didn’t mean that he was happy without his children. He thought about them all the time. He could almost feel James crashing into him with the toy broom if he tried, hear the boy’s delighted squeal as Harry swung him up and around in his arms—  
  
The air hissed around him, and odd flickers of colorless light stormed past his eyes for a moment. Harry blinked frantically, but Ginny was still talking and didn’t appear to have noticed anything wrong.  
  
“Mum’s coming this morning to help with the kids. And Luna said she’d stop by this afternoon. I’m late for practice, but Glynnis understood when I explained that you had just vanished.” Ginny leaned forwards and stared at him piercingly. “Maybe you better  _had_  stay to breakfast at the Manor, since you’re there already. Just don’t get used to those people taking up so much of your time, Harry Potter. Or you may find out, someday, that other people don’t like to be taken for granted and don’t want you taking up  _their_  time.”  
  
The fireplace went dark. Harry knelt where he was, staring into it, and the guilt grew worse and worse, biting his heart with sharp fangs.  
  
 _Just breakfast_ , he promised himself firmly as he stood,  _and then an hour of research with Draco. That’s_  all.  _I shouldn’t be spending this much time in the house, anyway, in case Marian decides the time is ripe to make another “confession.”_  
  
*  
  
Draco didn’t want to chance either Marian or Narcissa sharing breakfast with them, so he spent the time while Potter firecalled his wife reassuring his mother. It wasn’t easy.  
  
“What were you  _doing_ , Draco?”  
  
He sighed and looked up at her from the chair where she’d ushered him the moment he walked through the door into the dining room, while all the while clucking that he shouldn’t be standing. “Nothing unusual, Mother. Putting on my dress robes. Thinking of dinner. I noticed the door had been locked, but I thought Marian had done it.”  
  
“I’ve told you before, Draco, if she respected you—“  
  
“And at this point, I don’t think she’ll ever respect me again,” Draco cut Narcissa off impatiently. “It’s not something I can do anything  _about_. Besides, I thought you wanted to hear what happened to me while I was in the loo?”  
  
Narcissa’s mouth sagged slightly open. Draco thought he knew why. It had been years since he spoke back to her that way. She was used to passive resistance, or whinging and pouting that a child might be embarrassed about. Of course, her eyes were already narrowing, and he suspected that she was thinking of ways that she could use this new spark of his that would support her ambitions for him.  
  
A moment later, she said, “Yes, I do want to know. Go on.”  
  
At least she didn’t seem disposed to disbelieve him now. Draco supposed the miraculous effect of Harry’s touch had been enough even for her. He briefly recounted the shattering mirror, and how the shards had gone straight through his Shield Charm. She stared at her hands when he was done, and shook her head.  
  
“How can we prevent a recurrence?”  
  
Draco felt a moment’s surge of deep pride. His mother wanted him to do something worth doing, but she also loved him and wanted to protect him. And now that she believed the curse was real, she wouldn’t waste time wailing about how she’d been wrong or demanding that he hear her apologies.  
  
“Researching the life-debts and the scars we both have from cursed objects seems the clearest course right now,” he said. “And I think we should  _remove_  every mirror in the house, Mother, not just cover them.”  
  
Narcissa jumped to her feet. “I’ll do that,” she said, and he knew she was glad to have a task that would offer solid results. He watched her with a fond smile as she departed, and then started to stand as he saw Harry hesitating in the doorway.  
  
“No, no, sit down.” Harry crossed the room to him and fussed about his chair. Draco found the concern simultaneously gratifying and unnerving.  
  
“I’m not an  _invalid_ , Potter,” he huffed, rolling his eyes.   
  
“I thought you were going to call me Harry?” Harry straightened from examining the legs of the chair, as though he had wanted to make sure it wouldn’t collapse beneath Draco, and gave him a relaxed, joking smile.   
  
Draco felt another surge of emotion, this time happiness. He hadn’t had a lover he could joke with in years, and it had been longer than that since he had a friend. Whatever he and Harry ended up being to one another—even if it was just friends, and Draco never got to see whether Harry’s ears and neck were really that sensitive—it was worth it to know that they could speak to each other like  _this._  
  
“No matter what I call you, I’m still not an invalid.”  
  
Harry chuckled at him, and then sat down with a start as the first house-elf appeared, carrying a tray of apple slices, cut strawberries with a small bowl of cream near them, and fresh peaches. Draco watched him slyly as glasses of orange juice appeared next to the fruit, and then more ordinary toast. He could see more than hunger in Harry’s eyes; there was something like covetousness.  
  
“Don’t you have fresh fruit that often?” he asked.  
  
“Oh.” Harry seemed to come back to himself, and enthusiastically took one of the peaches and several of the apple slices from the central plate. He seemed more hesitant about feeding himself with the strawberries, but Draco thought he was fighting an impulse to simply snatch them all. “Of course. But lately James doesn’t like it, even though Al does, so we don’t have it very  _often_.” He bit into the peach, and closed his eyes.  
  
“Tell me about your children,” Draco said, sipping at the tea that Treety had brought him along with his orange juice, and shaking his head when the elf held the  _Daily Prophet_  out to him.  
  
Harry’s eyes popped open, cautious slits of green regarding him over the peach. “Why?”  
  
“Because you’ve met Scorpius, and I haven’t met them.” Draco laughed around a small bite of apple. “What, are you afraid I’ll hex them once I know their true names?”  
  
“No,” Harry muttered, looking chagrined. “Just—surprised that you would be interested in them, that’s all.”  
  
Draco leaned forwards, putting a hand on Harry’s arm. No jolt of sensation ran through him at the contact. He wondered idly if lying in bed and holding Harry’s hand all night had immunized him to it.  
  
“Friends are interested in almost everything having to do with their friends,” he said, and tried to control his face for the next words, though it was almost impossible. “That’s what I learned from the strong and sustaining friendships I had in Hogwarts, while you stayed around power-hungry cronies.”  
  
*  
  
Opening his mouth to snap, Harry realized abruptly that Draco was making a joke at his own expense. He shut his mouth and swallowed again, shaking his head in a kind of dazed state.  
  
That Draco had a sense of humor about himself was more than he had expected.  
  
Part of him—the part that still lingered by the fireplace with Ginny, the part that had been stunned and saddened by how much he had saddened  _her_ —whispered that this was a bad thing. Harry didn’t need to be fascinated with Draco. The statement Draco had just made about friendships was untrue in more than one way. Friends could drift apart, or have strong obsessions or interests that the others didn’t share. Though he and Ron had taken advantage of Hermione’s research in school, they hadn’t been interested in the subjects for themselves, as she was, and Ron still didn’t share half his wife’s thinking time.  
  
But the majority part of his mind still thought Ginny’s worry was silly. He  _loved_  her. His friendships with Ron and Hermione, Luna and Dean, and a few other people who worked n the Blood Reparations Department and whom he’d come to know since the end of the war didn’t threaten his marriage. Ginny was, understandably, grieved that he was spending time with people she hated. But he could laugh with Draco all he liked, and it wouldn’t make him any less eager to share his life with her.  
  
So he laughed, and started telling Draco about James Sirius, and Albus Severus, and Lily Nymphadora. Ginny had fought him on the names at first; she hadn’t thought naming all the children after dead people was healthy, and she particularly hadn’t liked Albus Severus’s name. But Harry had insisted. There was still little he could do to honor the dead; his work had to be among the living, helping those people who had been hurt by the war. And he had promised her that if one of the children ever found the association with the dead oppressive and wanted to change their names, Harry wouldn’t stand in the way of that.  
  
So far, he didn’t think they had to worry. James was so much like his grandfather had been—good and bad qualities both—that it scared Harry sometimes. Al was his own person, and he had a convenient nickname if people teased him. Lily was too young for it to matter to her.   
  
“Did anyone ever tease you about Draco?” he asked Draco.  
  
“Of course,” said Draco, and his mouth twisted in a wry little grimace. “Weasley, the first time we met. Or don’t you remember?”  
  
Harry blinked. He’d forgotten, actually. “I’m sorry for that,” he apologized. “I know it’s years too late, but I really  _was_  an ignorant little kid. I didn’t know anything about families or pure-bloods or Houses or anything else. All I knew was the people who were nice to me and the people who weren’t.” He managed a smile of his own that he hoped was sufficiently wry. “And I knew that I didn’t want to be in Slytherin House because you were there, and I didn’t want to be with people who might make me like them—or evil, which I was also afraid of.”  
  
Draco frowned at him. “It’s not as though you have a choice about which House you go into, Harry.”  
  
“I did.” Harry was feeling more and more embarrassed as Draco stared at him. He turned away and dipped a strawberry into cream to cover his flush, wishing for a moment, traitorously, that they could have this at home more often. “The Sorting Hat said I could have fit into Slytherin. I told it I didn’t want to go there, and finally it put me in Gryffindor.”  
  
“ _Well_.”  
  
Harry couldn’t distinguish all the emotions that Draco had piled into that one word. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.  
  
Draco let it go, however, or at least he did in the sense of not referring to it directly. He leaned forwards and tapped Harry on the elbow. “That just goes to show that there are more similarities between us than you once realized, Harry. And the life-debts and the scars make a multitude of resemblances.”  
  
Harry drew his lip in under his teeth, and then flicked his tongue out to lick a bit of cream from one of them. Draco’s face changed, and Harry wondered if he, too, was embarrassed at eating with someone who had so few manners. Harry mentally shrugged. One couldn’t be  _that_  particular when sharing the table with three young children.  
  
“So you think we should—what, try to erase the resemblances? Heal the scars? Ignore the life-debts?”  
  
“Idiot,” Draco murmured. “Did ignoring the visions in the mirrors work? Of course not. What we need to do is  _acknowledge_  what the similarities, the connections, mean. I think the life-debts might go away if we work to fulfill them.”  
  
“Well,” Harry said slowly, “I’m fulfilling the one I owe your mother by discovering who really murdered Esther. And you wanted—what, friendship? Does our friendship fulfill the one I owe to you?”  
  
“I think it can, yes.” Draco had a calculating look in his eyes, one that Harry tried to dismiss. A calculating look in his eyes was Draco’s natural expression. “I certainly can’t think of anything from you I want more.”  
  
 _Liar_ , Harry thought, but kept carefully away from considering what else Draco might want. If Draco wasn’t going to confront it, he didn’t have to. “So that leaves the two life-debts you owe me. Trouble is, I can’t think of anything I want from you.”  
  
“Can’t you?”  
  
Damn it, there was that intensity shining in Draco’s eyes like light through a crystal, as though he were going to break Harry with the silence. But Harry held his gaze, and refused to look away.  _No more running. Besides, it’s not as though what he’s hinting at could ever become reality. I’m in love with Ginny, and I don’t want to be physically intimate with anyone else._  
  
“I can’t,” he said. “Unless—could it be something small? Could I ask you for small gifts? Would that fulfill the debts?”  
  
“Not unless the gifts themselves greatly mattered to you in some way.” Draco kept his voice husky, either not noticing or refusing to interpret Harry’s annoyed look. “If I were to give you a glass of water when you were in danger of dying of dehydration, for example, that would count. But otherwise, giving small gifts only says that my life is of little value to me.” He cocked his head. “You know that is not true.”  
  
“No,” Harry admitted. “I’ve met Scorpius.” He hesitated again, then shook his head and muttered, “I can’t think of anything else I want from you.”  
  
“Then put it in the back of your mind for now,” Draco said smoothly. “Take it out and think about it later.”  
  
 _When you’re not in my company_ , the tone of the voice said.  _Think about me when you’re trying to be around other people and think about other things._  
  
With an effort, Harry turned his head, breaking the connection of the gaze between them. “Can you show me the research you’ve gathered on life-debts?” His voice felt heavy, his tongue numb.  _Damn it, being around him shouldn’t be this hard for me. It was easy a few moments ago!_  
  
“Just one thing first,” Draco said.  
  
Harry made a dismissive gesture with one hand.  
  
“I want to know,” Draco said. “You said during your last visit that you have dreams somehow connected to the curse. What are those about? For completeness of information, I think we have to consider them.”  
  
*  
  
Harry stiffened, and his eyes flared with an interesting combination of guilt and defensiveness.  
  
 _Caught, Potter, aren’t you?_  Draco’s hand twitched, but he kept it at his side despite an instinct to reach out and stroke Harry’s arm elbow to wrist. He wasn’t desperate for the touch of skin, but he  _liked_  touching it. Just now, though, it might send Harry running.  
  
Harry cleared his throat at last. “I—I don’t see why you’re interested in that, Draco.”  
  
“For completeness of information, I said.” Draco kept his voice low and his limbs relaxed, as though this really didn’t matter, but he was watching avidly for any telltale twitch or redness in Harry’s face. He wanted to  _know_. Even though he hadn’t known anything about the existence of the dreams until a few days ago—well, he was used to his passions changing abruptly and his fixations becoming unusual around Harry Potter. For as long as they associated, no matter how much older they got, Draco did not think that would change. “I want to know what you see.”  
  
“It’s like—stories.”  
  
 _Even given his general lack of eloquence, I didn’t expect that_. Draco cocked his head. “What do you mean by that?”  
  
“Just what I said.” Harry jerked his head a little, as though he had an insect on his hair and was trying to get it off. “I dream about us—being together. Having rows. Talking to Ron and Hermione. A few nights ago it was a fight about whether I could bring you to my birthday party, if we held the party in their house. It’s quite a different house,” he added hastily, as though Draco cared where the Weasels lived. “No connection at all to the one they actually own.”  
  
“But the house is constant from one dream to another, isn’t it?” Draco asked. “You said they were like stories,” he explained, when Harry gave him a harsh look.  
  
“Yes, it is,” said Harry. “But not, in other ways.”  
  
Draco held his impatience in and merely arched his brows.  
  
“It’s not told in chronological order.” Harry fussed with his fingers, not looking up at Draco. “Sometimes I’ll be dreaming of us as teenagers, then as adults. Once there was a dream where we seemed  _at least_  McGonagall’s age.” He arched his shoulders and shook his head. “Just dreams, as I said. Nothing real.”  
  
“But it’s a story about a reality where we chose each other,” Draco said softly. “We row, but we—what? Live together? We’re lovers, Harry, aren’t we?”  
  
“Yes.” Harry had his head turned determinedly away.  
  
“And you wake up aroused, and feeling as though you’ve betrayed your wife in your sleep,” Draco finished, sure that was it. The realization had arrived unheralded in the same part of his brain that knew what sexual positions Harry liked best, and that his ears and neck were sensitive.  
  
Harry nodded once, in a clipped fashion, and said, “And the dreams feel as if they’re real, as if I were really visiting that other life while I was there.”  
  
Draco opened his mouth to ask another question, but Harry turned to face him, and his eyes were brilliant and his mouth set.  
  
“And I don’t want jokes about that,” Harry said harshly. “No teasing, no innuendo, no flirting. It’s quite bad enough that we’ll have to talk about them in more detail when we start our—investigation. No more than that, Malfoy, all  _right_?”  
  
“Ignoring sexual attraction doesn’t make it go away,” Draco said, barely moving his lips, “any more than ignoring dreams and visions in mirrors makes them cease.”  
  
Harry laughed without humor. “And talking about them doesn’t make them palatable, either.” He blew out his breath, and Draco realized that his eyes were weary, his jaw half-relaxed, as if he simply couldn’t keep it clenched any longer.  
  
“Please,” Harry said simply. “I don’t want to discuss this unless we have to.”  
  
And Draco thought about it, and thought about the friendship that he hoped to have with Harry in the coming years— _would_  have, since this friendship was the fulfillment of a life-debt and therefore must endure. Did he want it to be strained and fretful, with Harry always fearful of his efforts to awaken sexual tension between them, or did he want it to be true and relaxed, with Harry feeling free to say whatever was on his mind?  
  
Perhaps it was victory enough to know that Harry’s nervousness meant part of him was indeed attracted to Draco, and that with enough prompting and kindling, his arousal could burst into flame.  
  
Draco touched his hand, lightly, in the same way Harry had held it during the night. “All right,” he said. “I think the most productive course right now is for you to decide what you’d like to fulfill the life-debts, so that I can give it to you.” It took more effort than he had expected not to lower his eyelids and give Harry an inviting sidelong glance when he spoke those words, but he did it.  
  
Harry’s answering smile was luminous, and Draco felt a strained tension in his own belly uncoil and fall limp.  
  
“Thank you,” Harry murmured to him. “ _Thank_  you.”  
  
Draco shrugged his acquiescence, but couldn’t keep a smile from rising in return.  
  
*  
  
Harry let himself into the house and looked around curiously. It was quiet, which usually meant trouble.  
  
“Molly?” he called. “James? Al?”  
  
“I sent them away.”  
  
Harry straightened his spine, and then turned. Ginny stood behind him, holding a piece of parchment that looked like a letter in her hand, her head slowly shaking back and forth.  
  
“Gin,” Harry said quietly. If she was about to scold him for the amount of time he’d spent at Malfoy Manor, he would defend himself, but he would not let her rule the argument. He wasn’t leaving her, and Draco had even agreed to stop luring him into doing so.  
  
“Why did you lie to me?” she whispered. “If you believed he was guilty all along, why didn’t you say so?”  
  
Harry felt his jaw drop open a little. “What?” he said helplessly.  
  
Ginny handed the letter to him in silence. Harry read it. It was in his own handwriting, and it detailed several reasons “he” had—including Marian’s confession of Draco going missing for an hour—for believing that Draco Malfoy was guilty of the murder of Esther Goldstein. His signature was at the bottom.  
  
“I didn’t write it.” His voice was dry with panic. “Ginny, there are charms to feign a person’s handwriting. I—“  
  
“I know,” Ginny whispered. “But signatures can be analyzed easily for falsehood, Harry. Someone came up with the spell a few centuries ago to protect the authenticity of legal documents. I tested it on that signature. It’s yours, Harry.” She hesitated, then handed him a smaller slip of parchment. “This was in the envelope with it, lying on the table in the study.”  
  
Harry stared at the parchment. It said:  
  
 _Copies of this letter have gone to the_  Daily Prophet, _to every member of the Weasley family, to Esther Goldstein’s family, and to Malfoy Manor._


	10. Plunging Downwards

“But, Harry, don’t you think you should wait—“  
  
“No, because that’s how rumors get started,” Harry snapped, kneeling in front of their fireplace. He’d already tossed the Floo powder into the flames and called out for Malfoy Manor, and now it remained to be seen if the connection was open. He tensed in irritation as Ginny put a restraining hand on his arm, and shook her off. “If I firecall him, he’ll find it harder to ignore me than he would if I just hid in silence and let everyone assume that it’s the  _truth_ , that I feel he’s guilty.”  
  
“But would that really prevent you from—“  
  
The Floo connection wasn’t open. Harry narrowed his eyes and stood. “I’m Apparating to the Manor,” he said. “If I’m not back by the afternoon, Ginny, it’s because Malfoy and I have killed each other, and you should tell Mrs. Malfoy to send my body back to you.”  
  
“Harry, for God’s sake, at least send an owl first.”  
  
“What, and give ignorance another chance to breed?” Harry said, and burst into motion, hurtling out of the house and into the August heat. He winced as it clanged onto his head, but that didn’t change his determination. He  _would_  go to the Manor, and he  _would_  make Draco understand that, for all the tensions that might lie between them, he would never do something as stupid as this. If they knew each other well, he would trust Draco to have accepted that already, but they didn’t know each other well, and that was as much his fault as Draco’s.  
  
Ginny called out one more time behind him. Harry couldn’t tell from the tone of her voice if she was worried that he was walking into a trap, or just that he would embarrass himself. Neither was a worthwhile motive to stay where he was, especially when he had his wand with him. He would like to see the Muggleborn supremacists who could outfight  _him_.  
  
His blood hurried through his veins, and his hands formed into fists even as he prepared to Apparate. These enemies had attacked  _him_  directly. He would not permit that. He would not. He would not let these people, whoever they were, foul things up more than they already had—not for him, not for Draco, and not  _between_  them.  
  
This was the reason that Hermione had wanted him in the Blood Reparations Department, and insisted that he would be wasted as an Auror. He could fight violence and cast defensive spells well enough, but there were lots of wizards who could do that. There weren’t as many who would grow so ragingly angry when they found an injustice being done to someone else. And since Harry had grown  _somewhat_  wiser since he was a student at Hogwarts, he no longer thought that only those people he approved of could be wronged.  
  
It didn’t hurt that Draco had become a friend, of course. But he still wasn’t going to let something this unjust happen, no matter whom it affected.  
  
He vanished with a crack that he hoped his and Draco’s mutual enemies could hear, wherever they were.  
  
*  
  
The signature was genuine.  
  
Draco had known that before he cast the spells to test it, of course. A signature  _couldn’t_  be feigned, not one made with a wizard’s free will. It contained their magic. If someone had found a way to get around that protection, they’d be using it to undermine the entire wizarding world’s legal and financial system, not to strike at the obscure son of a Death Eater.  
  
So now he had to sit here with this letter from Harry expressing his opinion of Draco’s guilt, signed with a damning rush of ink, and cope with the loss of the friend he’d thought he was making and the one person whose support he’d most counted on when facing these pure-blood supremacists, or Muggleborn fanatics, or whoever they were.  
  
It hurt more than he had thought it would.  
  
But beneath the hurt burned anger like the coals of lava, smoldering and ready to burst into flames the moment it was appropriate. The thought of Harry suffering was very pleasant to Draco right now.  
  
Of course, he would not put harming Harry ahead of finding out whoever had written him those threatening letters, and cast that blood magic. Those people had threatened his  _son_. Harry was just a disappointment, and the best revenge Draco could get on him was finding out who had really murdered Goldstein and throwing the truth in his face.  
  
But when the time came…  
  
When the time came, what  _delight_  he would take in that.  
  
Draco flexed his hand once, and then stood up, with a little shake of his head. He probably should have guessed something from Harry’s manner at breakfast this morning, the way that they hadn’t actually started researching the life-debts, but drifted into personal matters. Harry had probably lied about the dreams he was having, too—anything to make Draco think more about sexual attraction than the truth staring him in the face.  
  
 _But what about the mirrors? And the fact that Harry’s touch changed those cuts into mere scars? Can you really solve this without him?_  
  
Draco shrugged stiffly. He hadn’t  _tried_  solving it on his own yet. And if it turned out, in the future, that he required Potter’s help, there was no reason that he had to deal with him face-to-face. The Malfoys had employed house-elves for even more distasteful purposes than this before.  
  
 _And will when I’m gone. Think of Scorpius. Think of your ancestors lying in the vaults, all those bones that were clad in living flesh once, and thought different things than you do, but had the same purpose—to preserve the Malfoy line. Whoever they are, they won’t drag me down, and end it, and put me in Azkaban. There’s still Scorpius, and I’ll secure a future for him._  
  
He nearly missed the twinge in the wards, his attention so centered on his son. Then he recognized Potter’s presence at the edge of them.  
  
Draco sneered.  _Come to tell me he doesn’t mean it? Come to play more games with my trust, and convince me to take him back, and then betray me again, to see how loudly he can make his cronies laugh? I don’t think so._  
  
He drew his wand and cast a spell that would make his voice emerge from the air next to Potter’s head, where he stood banging on the gates that would no longer dissolve for him. “Fuck yourself sideways, traitor.”  
  
*  
  
“Fuck yourself sideways, traitor.”  
  
Harry hissed between his teeth. He had expected something like this. And the enormous wards shimmered around the Manor, protecting it so thoroughly that he knew not even the savior of the wizarding world could break through them.  
  
 _Not that I want to break them, not when I know that someone is hunting Draco’s family._  
  
He stood there fuming for a moment, contemplating turning his back and going home. But then he shook his head and stood upright. His jaw clenched as he thought of the times in the past when he had argued with Ron and Hermione. Not talking had made everything worse. It had taken dragons to repair his and Ron’s friendship in fourth year. He didn’t want the same thing to happen this time—especially because this danger might be of the kind that would kill Draco and leave Harry alone with regret and guilt.  
  
He couldn’t get through the wards.  
  
But he could make himself incredibly annoying until Draco opened them of his own free will.  
  
*  
  
Draco gritted his teeth. He should be reading about life-debts and what was acceptable to fulfill them and what wasn’t. He should not be counting under his breath, wondering if Potter would throw up another distraction on time.  
  
He did. Precisely five minutes since the last one—the prat must be using a  _Tempus_  charm—the wards rang in Draco’s head, letting him know that someone was casting hexes at the border of the gardens. The hexes couldn’t penetrate the wards, but they roused the alarms, as Potter’s mere presence would not.  
  
And Draco couldn’t silence the alarms and cause Potter to leave him alone that way, because then he might not hear his enemies the next time they showed up.   
  
Five minutes later, another round of hexes and another round of silent screams of protest in Draco’s head. He slammed his book down and glared through the walls, as if Potter could feel his eyes and would stop his obnoxious behavior at once.  
  
He didn’t. Of course, he’d been at it for three hours, so there was no sign that he would get tired of his little game any time soon.  
  
Another round of alarms, shrieks in his head that troubled no one else, since the wards were linked to him alone, and Draco jerked to his feet. He was grinding his teeth, which wore the enamel off and which his mother had got after him about more than once, but he didn’t care.   
  
He would go out and scream his consciousness of the truth into Potter’s face. That would be satisfying in a way that waiting patiently and coolly for his revenge wouldn’t be. He could always be patient and cool with his revenge later, once he had proven that he  _didn’t_  need Potter.  
  
His pace quickened as he neared the library doors, and he was vaguely surprised to find himself running by the time he reached the front entrance of the Manor. He dismissed it as eagerness to make Potter leave him the fuck alone. How was he supposed to get any  _work_  done, and get rid of this curse that plagued them both, if Potter wouldn’t let him research?  
  
And no, he didn’t mourn the loss of their new friendship. And no, he didn’t want any of Potter’s “help.”  
  
*  
  
Harry had planned carefully. He saw the doors of the Manor open, but he didn’t bother to stop casting his hexes until he saw Draco hastening towards the iron gates. Then he lit the feathers of an albino peacock that had strayed past the wards to stare at him on fire. The bird squawked and ran away into the hedges, forcing Draco to stop and smother the flames before he turned towards him.  
  
And  _that_  gave Harry the chance to speak first.  
  
“You’re going to listen to me for five minutes,” he said.  
  
Draco gave a jagged sneer. The expression saddened Harry; it made his face look so ugly. “And why should I—“  
  
“I’m claiming one of my life-debts, Draco,” Harry said, lifting his head. “Five minutes of your time.”  
  
Draco rocked on his heels. Harry wondered what had taken him more aback: the use of his first name, or the notion that the curse might be solved the sooner if they could dissolve one of the ties binding them.  
  
“All right,” Draco said at last, in such a supremely ungracious tone that Harry wished the wards were down so that he could smack him. “Five minutes, Potter. And  _no_ more than that. I already know what you think of me, so I see no need to let you declaim at length.”  
  
“You’ll be the one to ask for longer,” Harry told him, and, as Draco’s face shifted towards incredulity, he drew out the vial of Veritaserum from his pocket and placed three drops onto his tongue.  
  
He shivered in involuntary revulsion as the potion’s haze settled over his mind. He had never liked the effect. But he needed the guarantee. He threw the vial at the gates before he could change his mind, though it bounced and rolled away from the wards—but not far enough for it to get beyond Draco’s reach, as he snarled an oath, dissipated the protective spells with a wave of his wand, and lunged through the empty space to snatch the vial.  
  
“This could be water, for all I know,” he said.  
  
“My name is Sev—Harry James Potter,” Harry said, and he knew Draco would hear, as well as he did, the lie twisting in his mouth like a hooked fish, transformed into the truth in spite of himself.  
  
Draco just stared at him, then shook his head. “Why?” he whispered. At least a good portion of the wind had gone out of his sails, which gratified Harry.  
  
“Because I wanted to talk to you,” said Harry, the Veritaserum forcing him to interpret the question as a literal inquiry after information. “And I didn’t see any other way to make sure that you’d listen to me.”  
  
Draco kept on staring. Harry felt an odd sensation as those eyes examined him. It was as if no one else had ever really  _seen_  him before. Of course, that was probably his triumph at having made a stuck-up prig like Draco  _listen_  talking.  
  
“Did you write that letter?” Draco asked.  
  
Harry smiled, because he could answer simply, and Draco would have no choice but to believe him. “No.”  
  
Draco clenched his hands at his sides, but his eyes didn’t waver. “But—there is no way a signature could be feigned.”  
  
“That doesn’t mean they couldn’t have got hold of it some other way, and decided to use it as they liked,” Harry said. He spread his hands when Draco stared at him. “I’ve _asked_  myself, the same questions, Draco. Would you think I’d come here if I’d  _really_  written the letter? I mean, what would be the point?”  
  
“To get me to trust you again.” Draco’s face was screwed up in an odd way. If he had still been a schoolboy, Harry would have said that he was trying not to cry. “So that you could laugh when I did.”  
  
“That would be something you would do,” said Harry, the Veritaserum forcing him to speak the truth he honestly believed.  
  
Draco scowled.  
  
“You would,” Harry told him. “You completely would.”  
  
“I did plan to take revenge on you, yes,” said Draco. “But—“ He blinked a few times, and seemed to wrench his attention away from the letter to the implications of the letter. “Was that what they intended to do when they sent this? Estrange us completely, shut me off from you, because they knew how hurt I would be?”  
  
“I can’t be sure, but I think that’s the reason, yes.” Harry folded his arms and regarded him evenly. “And you did almost turn me away. I Apparated here the moment I realized the Floo connection was closed, because I wasn’t about to send owls and give you an excuse to ignore me.”  
  
“I would have sent a Howler.”  
  
“And that was probably what they counted on,” Harry murmured, his mind knocked into a new track. “Whoever sent that letter, they know us fairly well. They know our way of relating to each other—if you can think of punches and insults as a way of relating.”  
  
Draco snorted, but didn’t make his opinion clear one way or the other. He was peering at Harry now as if he’d never heard him use reason before.   
  
“I would have got angry about the Howler, and either sent another one or decided there was no point in reconciling to you,” Harry explained. “At least, that’s what I would have done ten years ago, before I got to know you. And I have the feeling that our enemies know what we  _used_  to be like, but have no idea about this new friendship.”  
  
Draco’s eyelids lowered. “Then it might be better not to disillusion them, mightn’t it?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Draco.” Nor did he have the slightest idea why it made Draco look so distressed, whatever it was.  
  
“Maybe we should pretend to anger in public,” Draco suggested, reluctance dragging at his words. “Make them think their trick worked. That way, we can meet in secret and not have them suspect anything.”  
  
“That’s a  _stupid_  idea,” said Harry, and Draco glared again. He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m less diplomatic when I’m on Veritaserum.”  
  
“Explain to me why caution worthy of my father is stupid,” Draco said, in exaggeratedly patient tones.  
  
“Because I can’t lie that well,” said Harry. “Because they’d watch us, and sooner or later they’d catch us meeting. Because if I don’t protect you, the Aurors might use my supposed disapproval as an excuse to descend on you and arrest you. After all, if the Savior of the Wizarding World—“ he spat the words, so that Draco could hear how much he despised the title “—is convinced you’re guilty, why should they keep you free? And this time they might decide that lack of evidence doesn’t matter.”  
  
“I don’t need your protection, Potter.”  
  
“Yes, you do, you stubborn idiot,” Harry told him, and was a bit horrified to note that his voice sounded almost…affectionate. At least he really  _did_  think Draco was an idiot. “They sent copies of the letter to the  _Daily Prophet_ , too. A wider storm is about to fall on you than you realize. But I still have some influence with the press. It’s not enough to prevent harassment, but it’s enough to outface the Ministry people who might do stupid things because of what the papers are saying.”  
  
Draco frowned at him. “This is going above and beyond what the fulfilled life-debts ask you to do.”  
  
“If you wanted the bare minimum of help, then you should have picked someone who wasn’t me to owe you a life-debt.” Harry faced him. “I like to think I’ve learned something about adulthood in the last decade—and honesty, too. It’s better to follow the honest course, no matter how hard it is.”  
  
“There speaks a Gryffindor.”  
  
“There speaks someone who’s lived in the world for the last ten years, instead of staying cooped up in his house because he thinks he’s a useless fool.”  
  
Draco’s expression drifted through a complicated mixture of emotions before it settled on outrage. “And you—“  
  
“You’re  _not_  a useless fool.” Harry was grateful for the Veritaserum all over again. This might be the only chance he’d ever have to say these words and have Draco believe him, and it was clear, now, that they needed to be said. “You’re someone I’d be proud and glad to name a friend if you’d just get  _over_  yourself. You aren’t as much of a coward as I thought, and you love your son.”  
  
“That’s a ringing endorsement,” Draco said dryly.  
  
“Shut  _up_  a moment,” Harry suggested. “It is an endorsement, yes. But it’s based more on what I think you could be than what you are right now. I’m going to need help to protect you and solve this curse at the same time, not to mention solving the mystery. I’d rather not have you hiding your head and moaning every five minutes.”  
  
Draco straightened his spine and gave him a molten glare. Harry controlled his expression, which threatened to break into a grin. Everything he’d said was the utter truth, but he’d chosen the words he had because he knew they would sting Draco into reacting this way. Who said that you couldn’t manipulate someone else when you were on Veritaserum?  
  
“I won’t hide my head and moan every five minutes.” Draco spoke those words between gritted teeth.  
  
“Not every ten minutes, either. My tolerance doesn’t extend that far.”  
  
“Goddamn it, Potter, I hate you.” But Draco belied that a moment later by waving his wand. The iron gates dissolved. He hesitated one more time, then stepped forwards and extended his hand.  
  
Harry clasped it. Draco met his gaze, and Harry could see the fire he’d lit burning there, whether or not Draco wanted it to burn.  
  
“Shall we show them that they’ve just earned themselves a new, united pair of enemies?” Harry said softly.  
  
The signs of Draco’s enthusiasm were to be found in the flex of his cheekbones and the corners of his eyes, Harry thought—not the usual place to look for such an emotion, but he didn’t care. “Yes,” Draco breathed.  
  
That one word was all Harry really needed.  
  
*  
  
Ginny was waiting for him when he stepped out of the fireplace, swatting at the soot on his robes. She said nothing. Her folded arms and the absolute ice in her gaze, worse than anything Harry had seen Draco muster since that day they’d faded together, were all the words  _she_  needed.  
  
Harry met her gaze calmly. That made her falter. She’d expected him apologetic or defensive, he knew, the same way that Draco had expected him to come whinging and claiming that there was some good reason behind his writing that letter. Harry was almost amused to find that he’d hopped over his wife’s expectations the same way he’d done to Draco’s.  
  
“I need to know what you’re angry about,” he said quietly. “My spending time at the Malfoys’? My leaving longer than you expected? My staying with Draco overnight? Let me know, Ginny. You say that you’re afraid I’m going to leave you. I  _won’t_  leave you. But I won’t let you dictate my friendships, either.”  
  
Ginny nibbled her lower lip, as if she were considering her options in the face of his open honesty. Then she said, “I’m afraid that you’ll come to prefer his company to mine. That he’ll come to mean more to you than your family. I’ve never seen you take to someone so fast, Harry. Usually you’re more guarded than this, you know.”  
  
Harry smiled and walked over to embrace her. “Well, most of the time new people I’m meeting are strangers who might want to use my name and fame for something,” he murmured into her hair. “Malfoy isn’t really a stranger.”  
  
“He still wants to use you.”  
  
“I owed them a life-debt.” Harry shrugged. “That makes it different.” He hesitated, then decided that they had gone long enough without talking about the mirrors and the visions. “And if we fulfill the life-debts that hang between us, Draco and I, we might be able to stop seeing visions in mirrors.”  
  
Ginny drew back from him, at the same moment as her arms tightened. She had wanted to watch his face, Harry realized, when he saw the incredulity and hope slowly growing in her eyes. “I would love that,” she whispered.  
  
And he knew, then, how hard it must have been for her, seeing this strange magic wreaking damage on him but never talking about it, because they had agreed that they wouldn’t. She hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it, but it had forced itself more and more into her awareness. And perhaps she hadn’t been as asleep as he assumed she was during those dreams when he woke panting with fear or arousal, or shaking with pleasure.  
  
“We’re both working to ensure it goes,” he said, stroking her back gently. “I don’t expect you to welcome Draco into our home any time soon, but he’s your ally in this, I promise. We both want it gone.”  
  
“Then I can endure him, I think,” Ginny whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “If he gives me my husband back.”  
  
Harry, well-pleased with everything in the universe at the moment, kissed her hair.  
  
 _We’ll right everything. Whoever our enemies are, they’ve underestimated us. And I’ll be able to spend quiet evenings at home with Ginny, as well as noisy evenings out with Draco. I’ll have everything I want, too._


	11. A United Front

The letter was as simple and clear as Harry could make it, even understated. He’d thought on each of the words, pounded them out in his mind before setting them down on parchment, and then sent the letter by owl to Draco before he sent it on to the  _Daily Prophet_. He wanted to make sure he was writing only words that Draco would agree to and approve of.  
  
In the end, this was the letter that went to the  _Daily Prophet_ , to Narcissa Malfoy, to the Ministry, to Ron and Hermione, to Esther Goldstein’s family, and to everyone else who could have an interest:  
  
 _To all who may have heard that Harry Potter believes Draco Malfoy guilty of murder:  
  
It is not true. I am continuing my investigation into the murder at Draco Malfoy’s side. I have questioned him under Veritaserum as to his guilt and am satisfied with his answers. Despite the sins of his past and his family, which I would no more deny than he would, his is not a killer’s soul.  
  
Harry Potter._  
  
That released, Harry sat back and waited for the storm.  
  
*  
  
Draco spent the morning with his son, enchanting a toy soldier so that it marched around the room just ahead of Scorpius, who chased it and again and again demanded the incantation from his father. Draco repeated the spell patiently for him, and listened in delight as Scorpius tried to cast it. God knew if he would manage to achieve the spell without even a practice wand, but it was harmless enough, and it would provide a good conduit for his accidental magic if it came bursting out.  
  
When Scorpius fell over from his toddling and nearly landed on his tailbone, Draco’s spells were there to save him from such an undignified pain. Scorpius didn’t seem to notice; he went back to chasing the soldier. Whenever Draco let him catch it, he picked it up, stared at its feet, and repeated the Latin words with the wrong emphasis and more than half the wrong syllables.   
  
 _I wish I could live like that_ , Draco thought, his heart pounding with an odd mixture of love for and envy of his son,  _so protected that I don’t even know I’m protected._  
  
But wasn’t that what he was almost doing now? He had hidden in the nursery, and had the house-elves fetch him and Scorpius breakfast there, so that he didn’t have to see the  _Daily Prophet_  or hear his wife’s taunting remarks immediately. He had to gather his strength. Or so he told himself, while the old familiar voice in his head laughed at his own refusal to acknowledge his cowardice.  
  
But at last Narcissa intruded, with a smile and coo at Scorpius, and a stern look at Draco. Draco gave a small nod, and reached out a hand for the paper she was insistent on handing him.  
  
“Did you come up with this letter together, or is it Potter’s notion?” his mother asked, staring at him as Draco’s eyes fell on the front page.  
  
“Both of ours,” said Draco, staring at the headline in awe. It seemed the Prophet was just as eager to turn on its anonymous informants as anyone else, if the other side offered a better story. The headline screamed, in letters bigger than those the paper had used to announce the “proof” of Draco’s guilt:  
  
 ** _MALFOY NOT GUILTY, POTTER SAYS!_**  
  
Beneath that was printed Harry’s letter, and then the writer’s slavish support, devoid even of Skeeter’s usual spin; whoever had written this was a clear Potter fan. Of course the writers and the staff of the  _Daily Prophet_  had never believed the trumped-up evidence of Draco’s guilt, the article said. A scrap of cloth the only link between the murder and any Malfoy? How much more obvious and childish a clue could there be? Whoever had done this had counted heavily on the Ministry’s willingness to believe the worst of any past Death Eater, and had forgotten that some people in the wizarding world—by which, Draco deduced, the writer meant Potter—would never just accept everything credulously.  
  
 _First hurdle passed_ , Draco thought as he folded the paper and stood, suddenly finding that he had an appetite after all.  _They accepted the letter. Now I suppose the interview with the Aurors will be next, or owls from Esther Goldstein’s family. But at least I won’t face them alone._  
  
Perhaps that simple fact shouldn’t have made him feel so much better. Yet it did.  
  
*  
  
Harry smiled grimly as the fire flared green, but finished reading the story to Al, perched on his knee, before he rose. Al cocked his head when he did, and grabbed the front of his robe in both hands.  
  
“Where are we going, Daddy?” he managed. Quiet and shy as he was, he spoke better than James when he really put his mind to it.  
  
Harry started to detach his son’s hands gently, but then paused. The fire flaring green had been Ron’s signal that Aurors were on their way to Malfoy Manor, and he had been planning to leave immediately—Ginny didn’t have practice today, and the children would be fine with her—and stand at Draco’s side when the Aurors arrived. But why  _couldn’t_  he take Albus? If Ginny agreed, of course. Would the Aurors dare do something less than honorable in front of an innocent child?  
  
He thought the chances were at least lessened. And, if one looked ahead to the future, he thought he could soften both Ginny’s antagonism and Ron and Hermione’s growing wonder if he let Al and Scorpius become acquainted. It would certainly make his future friendship with Draco easier if they had something to talk about when the curses were lifted and the life-debts fulfilled.  
  
“We’re going to Malfoy Manor, Al,” he said, and swung the small boy around so that he perched on Harry’s hip. “That place I’ve gone in the mornings for a little while now. You remember that I told you about Draco Malfoy?”  
  
Al nodded seriously. He recognized the name, though he probably didn’t remember the stories  _that_  well. Harry knew that he couldn’t ask overmuch of a two-year-old.  
  
“Well, there’s a boy there, your age,” he said, and watched Al’s eyes light up. Though he adored both Teddy and James, Al had suffered his share of teasing from them about his age. A friend two years old would make him feel better, Harry knew. “His name’s Scorpius.”  
  
“I want to meet him,” said Al, and the hold of his hands on Harry’s robes became more determined than ever.  
  
That made it easier for Harry to talk Ginny into letting Al go with him. She didn’t like it, but when Harry explained, quietly, that Scorpius was just Al’s age, and that it would be important and interesting for their son to play with someone other than Teddy, James, and Rose, she gave a resigned nod. “Bring him back safe, you hear?” she did murmur into his ear as she kissed his cheek.  
  
“Of course,” Harry said, a bit insulted that she would think he wouldn’t lay down his life to defend Al, if that became necessary.  
  
“And come back safe yourself.” She drew back long enough to dart him a serious glance.  
  
Harry nodded, and then cast a spell that would prevent Al from becoming nauseated—a common problem the first time a child traveled by Floo—and confidently cast a handful of powder into the fireplace, knowing the connection to Malfoy Manor would be open for him. Al was a warm weight against his chest as he stepped forwards, and Harry curled himself protectively down, until his chin brushed his son’s hair. Al laughed, then coughed as soot caught in his throat.  
  
Harry had the oddest sensation as they whirled away. It was as if he were carrying his past to meet his future. Which was nonsense, because really, both Al and Draco were two pieces of his present.  
  
And there was another sensation that  _was_  familiar, and which he didn’t like at all. The scars on his forehead, his chest, and the back of his hand throbbed steadily, softly, mercilessly.  
  
*  
  
Draco would have given a great deal to see the expression on the Aurors’ faces when they strode through the front doors of the Manor and found his mother waiting with tea ready for them. But he had to remain in the nursery, near the back of the Manor, until his mother called for him. It was one thing for Narcissa Malfoy, mistress of social courtesies and not a suspect herself, to anticipate the Ministry’s schedule; it would seem too suspicious if Draco was also waiting for them, as if he had insider knowledge.  
  
Which he did, thanks to Ron Weasley. But one did not  _betray_  such things.  
  
He straightened Scorpius’s dress robe with one fussy hand. Of course the house-elves had dressed him, and of course they had done a seemingly perfect job, but Draco would rather have cut off his left hand than let his son go out with dirty clothes, and in his wandering Scorpius had run against his cot and smeared a small amount of dust over the hems.  
  
“You never stop thinking about clothes, do you, Malfoy?”  
  
Draco felt something within him relax as the deep voice spoke from behind him. He had known Harry was coming, but—well, he had not been certain when he would arrive, that was all. He had not  _really_  been anxious that he wouldn’t show up. Once a Gryffindor made a promise, he stuck to it.  
  
“Just think of the social influence and friends you could win if you did the same thing,” he drawled, and then scooped up Scorpius and turned around, eager to see the way Harry’s face would soften when he caught sight of the boy.  
  
Except that Harry carried a bundle of his own, and his face both softened and became expectant, as he awaited Draco’s reaction to his son.  
  
Draco couldn’t do much but stare. The boy lacked the lightning bolt scar that would have made Harry distinctive even at two, of course, but the messy black hair and green eyes were the same. Harry’s son resembled him at least as closely as Scorpius resembled Draco—and more legitimately, Draco thought with a small stab of envy, since he was sure Harry had worked no magic to change the baby’s eye or hair color.  
  
“Draco Malfoy,” Harry murmured, “my son, Albus Severus Potter.” The little head tilted back and the small mouth frowned at his father, showing that the boy didn’t like his full name. “We call him Al,” Harry added, and the puckered mouth relaxed. “And this is Draco Malfoy, Al, and his son Scorpius.”  
  
“Is he my age?” Al demanded in a reedier voice than Draco had expected; the boy was slightly larger than Scorpius. “You said he was my age.”  
  
“You’re two, Scorpius, aren’t you?” Harry asked, and Draco appreciated the way Harry directed his attention at his son, instead of waiting for the adult who held him to answer.  
  
“Yes, I am,” said Scorpius, with impeccable politeness, and then he reached out an arm. Draco carried him across the room to take hold of Al’s hand, since he didn’t want him running about on the carpet and getting his robes dirty again. Scorpius stared curiously at the other boy, but never wavered, and Al gripped him back the same way, staring slightly at him too, as if, now that he saw him, someone else his own age was a miracle too startling to be swallowed all at once.  
  
Harry muffled a chuckle. Draco glanced at him, and saw his green eyes burning with a pride and pleasure and joy that made Draco’s knees weak. To cover it, he coughed and looked down at the boys. “You think they’ll soften the Aurors?” he murmured.  
  
“That,” said Harry easily, “and I’ve been promising Al a friend his own age forever. Thought they’d both appreciate it—and in the future, we can talk about them when we can’t think of anything else.”  
  
Maybe it was stupid, but Draco wasn’t one to let a challenge like that pass by. “I don’t think we’ll  _ever_  run out of interesting things to talk about,” he said, and flashed his teeth in an expression that Harry could mistake for a smile if he really wanted to. “Not when decades have passed.”  
  
*  
  
Harry snorted. “You’re probably right,” he said, firmly quashing his fear of any relationship with Draco lasting that long. He might live to a great age, and Draco might, too, and their sons would outlive them. He nudged Al, and pulled his son along so that his hand would separate from Scorpius’s. “We need to go out and talk to some people from the Ministry now, Al,” he said.  
  
Al’s face took on a stubbornness that made Harry want to groan. Lily was the good child, James the stubborn one, Al the shy one, he and Ginny were prone to say, but when Al  _really_  wanted something, he could make his brother look as yielding as river water. “Want to hold Scorpius’s hand,” he said, and tightened his grip, as if to say that Harry would have to rip him away before he would let go.  
  
“Me too,” said Scorpius, “Don’t want to let you go.” And he glanced up at his father with wide, appealing eyes that Harry was sure Draco had given in to many times, and then cursed himself for giving in to. He glanced at Draco, expecting to see the familiar eye-roll of any frustrated parent.  
  
Draco, though, looked as if he had had a large dose of his favorite cream. “Quite proper, Scorpius,” he said. “We should never let go of our friends.” And he shifted closer to Harry, so that the boys could more easily hold hands—and his shoulder leaned against Harry’s. His eyes were full of challenges that hadn’t been in his voice, darting through his expression like clouds.  
  
Harry returned his gaze for long moments, then inclined his head. Yes, this was more than just an image for the Ministry to gape at. This was a connection that would endure when the mystery and the Ministry’s harassment of the Malfoys was a distant memory.  
  
Draco’s face was molten with joy when he smiled like that. Harry turned carefully away, lest he be thought to be staring too long. His friendship with Draco had to be a little more careful than his friendship with anyone else.  
  
 _I hope that Al can have a bond with Scorpius that’s less complicated._  
  
“Shall we?” he asked, over the sound of Al telling Scorpius the story of how he’d nearly crashed his broom into a tree.  
  
“Let’s,” Draco said, and it didn’t matter that he was looking away; Harry could still feel the voice pouring into him like warm water.  
  
*  
  
Draco had never seen quite so many Aurors with dropped jaws, or  _thought_  to see quite so many. He smirked and kept his eyes trained carefully ahead, as though it were perfectly normal for him to be entering his drawing room with Harry Potter at his side and their sons clasped hand-in-hand, chattering to and sometimes interrupting each other with grave childish voices.  
  
It was normal, or it would be. Draco savored the happiness of that as a silent sweet inside himself, as he sat down in one of two chairs standing comfortably close together. Harry arranged himself easily in the other, adjusting his son and absently wiping away a bit of drool from Al’s chin. Draco clamped his jaw tight to avoid laughing aloud. Let these men and women, tall and stern in dark robes, stand up to that.  
  
“Mr. Potter,” said their apparent leader, a plump witch with very red cheeks who reminded Draco of Molly Weasley—unpleasantly so, though at least she didn’t have red hair. She didn’t bother to look directly at Draco before she focused on Harry. “I understand that you’ve reversed your former position on Mr. Malfoy’s guilt.”  
  
“That position was never mine,” Harry said smoothly, and then smiled up at her, a narrow expression that Draco thought he might have practiced on overeager fans and impertinent newspaper reporters for years. “If someone had thought to  _owl_  me before quoting that letter as mine, I could have made that clearer for them.” He paused, as though trying to think of why it hadn’t happened, and then gave a shrug, as relaxed as every other gesture he’d made so far. “A shame they didn’t.”  
  
“Then—“ The witch shook her head, as if coping with Harry’s denial was beyond her. Or as if her every plan had depended on not finding Harry Potter here, Draco thought, occupying himself with fussing over Scorpius’s hair so that he wouldn’t howl aloud with triumph.  
  
“I never believed Draco Malfoy guilty,” Harry said. “That letter printed this morning in the  _Daily Prophet_ , and sent to a few other people who needed to know about it, is the truth. I am continuing the investigation at Mr. Malfoy’s side. When I find the truth, then I’ll let you know.”  
  
“Mr. Malfoy had refused to take Veritaserum from our hands,” the witch said stiffly. “We had no reason to think that he was telling the truth.”  
  
“He could not be sure that you would not use the information against him,” said Harry, and he leaned forwards. Draco saw the expression he privately called Harry’s “charging lion” look appear on his face. He had seen it directed against him often enough. Never had he thought he would see it deployed in defense of him. “Or fish for other things that you had no right to know. Mr. Malfoy has confessed the Ministry’s harassment to me. Many Aurors, he has said, would hound him for the crimes of his father when he had no part in committing them.”  
  
“He’s a  _Malfoy_!” a younger Auror burst out from the back. “How can you trust him, Mr. Potter?” His voice was a limping little lost thing, Draco realized in contempt; in particular, he seemed to find the lack of an additional title for Harry distasteful.  _There’s someone who was just itching for him to become an Auror_ , Draco thought. “I know that you fought with him all through school. Rita Skeeter’s biography of you says that you slapped away his hand when you first met, and now—“  
  
Harry surged to his feet, though he never rose high enough to pull Al’s fingers from Scorpius’s. The expression on his face had changed again, this time to something like a thundercloud, and Draco felt a faint vibration move through the walls and the pictures on those walls. He was momentarily glad that there were no portraits in this room, his Malfoy ancestors would have objected to being rattled around by Harry’s magic.  
  
The young Auror seemed to have realized he’d gone too far, and swallowed audibly. The rosy-cheeked witch tried to intervene, but Harry interrupted before she could, speaking softly and passionately.  
  
“Every word that Rita Skeeter has written about me is a  _damn lie_. I didn’t get along with Draco in school, that’s true. But the boy is not the man. The  _man_  learned hard lessons during the war, and suffered more than any of you in here, I’ll be bound.” His voice deepened into a hiss, near enough Parseltongue that Draco saw a few of the Aurors shiver. Harry stalked forwards now, gently parting Al from his friend. The boy didn’t protest; he was looking up at his father in wonder. Draco realized with a start that Harry was positioning himself between Draco and the Aurors, as if he thought they would charge  _en masse_  and wanted to be ready to defend Draco. He didn’t have his wand drawn, but he didn’t need one. Holding a child in his arms, he was still stronger than any other wizard present, and they all knew it. “And he’s kept quiet since then, not trying to take advantage of the old Malfoy prestige, not consorting with any remaining Death Eaters or the pure-blood supremacists that I  _know_  some of you have ties to.” It was just a guess, since a group near this size—there were fifteen Aurors in the room—probably included some involved in the wizarding world’s most bitter political dispute, but an educated one. Draco saw cheeks flush, and eyes fall. “I would swear to his truthfulness with my honor, on my word, on my  _life_. Draco Malfoy is my friend, and you’ll have better proof than you do before you pretend that I support your arresting him.”  
  
Draco swallowed a few times. He had to make a contribution of his own now, one that he hadn’t told Harry about, but felt moved to make, given how bravely Harry was defending him. Still, he needed a moment to recover from all the emotions that stormed through him.  
  
Harry had protected him. Harry had stood as strongly at his side as he had ever stood by one of the Weasleys. Harry had made even his lack of ambition in the previous ten years look good.  
  
Draco could do no less than be worthy of such shining words.  
  
“As long as Harry can stay,” he interrupted quietly, “I’ll take the Veritaserum.”  
  
*  
  
Harry pivoted around, seeking out Draco’s eyes. He didn’t want Draco to do this merely to satisfy the Aurors. They didn’t  _deserve_  to be satisfied, and wouldn’t until they followed a due process of law and courtesy.  
  
What he saw in Draco’s face reassured him, though, as did the small nod and the mouthed  _Yes_  he received a moment later. Yes, Draco wanted this. And he didn’t fear the answers he might give as long as Harry remained in the same room with him so that the Aurors didn’t abuse the privilege.  
  
The witch who led them was entirely unnerved. She licked her lips, and then drew out the Veritaserum from a pocket of her robes. She gave Harry a glance before she proceeded. Harry stared hard at her, and stepped out of the way.  
  
He wondered idly if she realized that by granting him so much power and importance, she’d  _let_  him win.  
  
The questions the Aurors asked took up the better part of an hour. They asked about Esther Goldstein’s murder every way they possibly could, and still Draco steadily refused to give them anything but the truth—that he hadn’t murdered the girl, and in fact had never heard of her until the killing appeared in the papers. When one of the Aurors tried to ask about something else, such as a young and stupid one who said he had a right to know what Draco had done during the war, Harry leaned forwards and stared. That cut said questions  _right_  off.  
  
Luckily, no one asked if Draco had remained in his room that entire night. When asked where he was, he said, “At home,” and that was enough.  
  
Harry was peripherally aware that Narcissa had come back into the room during the interrogation, but he didn’t dare turn away to acknowledge her, knowing the Aurors were just waiting for such an excuse. When the rosy-cheeked witch, her hands shaking now with frustration, capped the Veritaserum and put it away, Harry stood, shifted Al to the side, held out his hand, and gave her a smile with all his teeth in.  
  
“I hope you’ve learned what you need to know,” he said.  
  
She stared back at him as she shook his hand. “Someday, Potter,” she said, “you won’t be here.”  
  
Harry let his magic and his anger gather in his eyes, and she turned and led the others hastily out.  
  
Draco started to stand, his eyes and smile brilliant. Harry’s breath caught as he looked at him.  
  
Narcissa interrupted before he could speak. “Draco,” she said, and her voice was pale and colorless and made Harry turn in a moment.  
  
Her face was a match for her voice. She stood with her hands folded precisely in front of her and enunciated every word clearly. “Marian is missing, and there is blood splattered all over her room.”


	12. Support and Endurance

Harry had one hand on Draco’s back as he looked into his wife’s room. He couldn’t see much more than the side of Draco’s profile, but that was enough to make out pale cheeks and a clenched jaw.   
  
“I don’t know if the blood is hers or not,” Draco said, and then licked his lips. “I don’t know the proper spell.” He shifted his gaze to Harry. “Do you?”  
  
Harry nodded minutely and stepped into the room past him, though he moved so that he could keep his left hand on Draco’s back even as he drew his wand and cast the spell with his right. Al and Scorpius were safe with Narcissa, who had agreed to keep them both while her son investigated the scene with Harry’s help. Harry wasn’t sure if he should mention that detail to Ginny or not. She might want to know why he hadn’t Apparated away from the Manor with Al the moment he knew there was danger nearby.  
  
Then Harry chided himself for thinking of his wife, and so unflatteringly at that, when there was something he could do for Draco. He flicked the wand and cast the spell he had learned from Ron on those occasions when the work of the Aurors crossed the work of the Blood Reparations Department. “ _Cruor cognitor_!”  
  
The blood—and there were indeed great splotches of it, draped like veils on the curtains of the bed and running up the walls like the work of incompetent painters—began to glow golden. Harry narrowed his eyes against the intense light, and felt Draco seize his right wrist, as though the hand on his back were no longer enough for him. Harry leaned back in reassurance, and felt their shoulders touch, too.  
  
 _God knows I’d want support at a time like this, if it were Ginny’s blood I was facing._  
  
The light bubbled and danced like molten metal; then it melted up into a gleaming pillar that rotated twice before it assumed human shape and features. Noting that no other figures had appeared, Harry nodded grimly. Yes, either Marian had nearly slaughtered her attacker, or only Marian had been hurt.   
  
And, sure enough, the pillar took on the appearance of Draco’s wife. Just in case there could be any doubt remaining, the light took the form of enormous arrows pointing from her to every drop of blood in the room. Draco let out a heavy sigh, as if someone had punched him in the solar plexus. Harry shifted again, this time so that he had the other man wrapped fully in his arms, just in case he was about to faint.  
  
“It’s all right,” he whispered to him, and became aware he was rubbing his back, much the way he had rubbed Ginny’s when the labor with James had lasted for forty hours. “She might still be alive. I’ll help you search. I won’t give up until we find her, or find out what happened to her. It’s all right, Draco.”  
  
Draco said nothing for long moments. Harry let him take his time, keeping his head bowed, his hands continually moving and stroking.  
  
When Draco did speak, what he said was nearly the last thing Harry would have expected.  
  
“Is there a spell to tell  _how_  Marian shed the blood?” His voice was light, but underneath the surface, urgency rustled. “With a knife or a wand, in a battle with an enemy, or—or on purpose, perhaps?”  
  
Harry felt a sour suspicion kindle in his belly. He hated the thought that Draco’s wife could have done this to him, could have apparently plotted with the people accusing him of Esther Goldstein’s murder—  
  
But why was he surprised? She had tried to make Harry suspicious of Draco. She disliked her husband. And since she had been behind the wards, either she was the first victim of an awfully powerful wizard, who had managed to break the spells without alerting either Draco, master of the Manor, or Harry, sensitive to magic, or she had invited the perpetrator behind the wards herself.  
  
“There are spells like that,” Harry said, aware that he’d been silent a bit too long; Draco had drawn away and was looking at him strangely. “But I don’t know them. Hermione will, almost certainly. She made a sort of study of blood magic when she became Head of the Blood Reparations Department, since so many of the supremacist groups claim that there are intrinsic differences between Muggleborns and other sorts of wizards. She thought she should know how they planned to prove that.”  
  
Draco nodded. “Then ask Granger for me, please,” he said, hardly moving his lips. “I  _need_  to know, so that I can be prepared for what happens next.” He paused. “Whether that’s having Scorpius half an orphan, or—something else.”  
  
Harry nodded back. He started to withdraw his hold. “I’ll go and ask Hermione right away—“  
  
“Not now,” said Draco, and suddenly his grip was firm, as though he had come around to Harry’s belief that he was about to faint. “I need you to stay.” He paused, and then, as if he had to offer some excuse for it, added, “We’ve hardly talked about my visions or your dreams at all, and I think we should.”  
  
Swallowing his unease at some of the details that discussion would reveal, Harry said, “All right.” Draco was a friend, and right now, he was in need of comfort. Harry could hardly turn his back on him, could hardly walk away.  
  
 _Maybe you should_ , whispered a voice in his head that sounded eerily like Ginny’s.  _Lest you find yourself unable to do so later._  
  
Harry shook the voice off impatiently. Three of the life-debts were already fulfilled. He and Draco were well on the way to shedding all bonds that connected them save that of freely chosen friendship.  
  
The voice in the back of his head snickered, but fell silent as Harry escorted Draco back down the hall, to ask Narcissa to watch the boys for a little while longer while he and Draco talked.  
  
*  
  
Draco was bearing up well under the shock, he thought. After all, his wife might be dead, but his mind had jumped at once to the more likely explanation—that she had participated in this to try to cause him more doubt and fear—and perched there. Why wouldn’t an enemy leave a body behind, so that Draco would be in for more trouble and embarrassment with the Aurors? And he refused to believe that someone else could have penetrated the wards without his knowing, even someone Marian had invited. If they had, then he and his mother and Scorpius were not safe, and he could not bear the thought of that.  
  
He was well enough to be amused by Harry’s flushed cheeks and avoiding of his eyes, anyway.  
  
He softened his voice and leaned forwards. “I  _do_  think the details of the dreams are important, Harry. How can we begin our healing if we have no idea what the sickness entails?”  
  
Harry coughed twice, and said, “Er. Yes, I know.”  
  
“You said that the dreams were realistic,” Draco prodded. “I need to know more than that. Come on, tell me what they’re like.”  
  
Harry tensed his shoulders and leaned on the table in deep thought. They were in the library, and Harry appeared to dislike the dark, close room; he kept glancing up at the bookshelves as if he thought they would fall over on him. He licked his lips and scowled one more time at the table.  
  
Draco was just about to prod him again when Harry muttered, “Well. It’s not as if they’re just—dreams. Just glimpses of things I thought about during the day, I mean. How could they be? I hadn’t seen you for ten years. They were more like—like visions, like the kind I used to have when I shared a mental link with Voldemort.” He grimaced and balled his hands into fists. “They tell me a story of a life I suppose we could have shared. If the world was backwards and the sun rose in the west, I mean.”  
  
“I already knew all this,” Draco reminded him quietly. “Harry. I need more than that. Tell me what happened in a few of the dreams. What makes you so embarrassed to talk about them?”  
  
Harry fidgeted in his seat for a moment, then released a gusty sigh and sat back, evading Draco’s delicate grab for his wrist. Draco ground his teeth, but kept his stare calm and patient, and finally Harry rubbed a hand across his eyes and said what they both already knew but which was less real when Harry wasn’t voicing it aloud.  
  
“I dream about you and me making love.” He grimaced, paused as if rethinking his words, then shook his head in determination and pushed ahead. “I always wake up aroused from those dreams, and I’m afraid Ginny notices. I didn’t used to think she did, but she’s so edgy about me spending time around you, even if it’s just to solve this mystery. I—“  
  
“The details, Harry.”  
  
“Yeah.” Harry stared at his fists. “Well, there’s a sequence of dreams I’ve had. Not often, because I don’t think any dream repeats more than once; there are just some that are similar to others. But I can recognize some of them as coming after or before the rest, until they form one connected story.”  
  
Draco bit his tongue so that he wouldn’t urge Harry to hurry up again, and damage his recital. Harry might decide he didn’t need to hear this at all if he showed so much impatience.  
  
“I’ve been on a journey, I think. Or else I have a more dangerous job in this dream-world. In fact, I’m sure I do; I’m an Auror.” Harry grinned humorlessly, as much to say that he was glad he didn’t live in that world. “I just did something ‘heroic and stupid,’ to quote you, which nearly got me killed. You were furious at me, but your way of being furious—in those dreams, I mean—is to give me the silent treatment for a day or two, and then haul me into bed so hard and fast that we don’t get up for at least two days.”  
  
Draco felt a faint throb from his groin. He didn’t have an erection yet, but he would get one if Harry went on talking like this. As a matter of fact, that  _was_  the way he would treat a regular lover he was angry at. His one-night fucks didn’t count. Marian  _doubly_  didn’t count. But he would treat Harry like that, if he had him.  
  
 _It’s all me_ , he wanted to say.  _Those dreams are showing you the way I really am, the way I really would be if we were lovers._    
  
But he couldn’t be sure of that yet, so he clamped his teeth down on his tongue and kept his eyes on Harry, and waited.  
  
“And it’s—good.” Harry was blushing fiercely now, and seemed to fight the word before it would emerge from his mouth. “You, um, make love to me, and allow yourself to be made love to, and you insist that I eat breakfast in bed instead of getting up to cook it—“  
  
 _What kind of dream-world is this, in which I don’t have house-elves?_  Draco thought, but the irrelevancy faded away as he listened.  
  
“And you hold me down with your body, and move in this very slow sensual way that I can’t even  _describe_ , and I can’t take my eyes off you, your face and your eyes are shining, and it occurs to me that maybe you’re even glad that you got angry, because it gives you the chance to do this and not have to worry about time or work schedules or anything else, just holding me there and moving inside me—“  
  
Draco did his best to reduce his hiss to a soundless little gasp of air. He was hard, now, and the heat that blossomed in his belly had sent tendrils up into his torso to twine around his nipples. He didn’t care that Harry might only be speaking this freely because he was glad to get the dreams off his chest, after ten years of not talking about them; he only knew that his mouth watered with the compulsion to kiss, his hands burned with the urge to touch.  
  
“That’s it,” he broke in. He didn’t want to end the flow of enticing details, but he would act recklessly in a moment anyway, so it might as well be an interruption of words and not grabbing Harry to haul him in.  
  
Harry blinked, and his face suddenly shuttered, as if he’d become aware of his unusual freedom in speech. “What do you mean?”  
  
“That is the way I make love,” Draco said. “When I have a partner I care about, at least, and not just someone I’m using to relieve my needs.”  
  
Harry waved a hand. “Well, yes,” he said, while his cheeks flushed further, “but this is all hypothetical anyway, Draco, since I’m not bent, and neither are you.”  
  
“As a matter of fact,” Draco said calmly, “I’m bisexual, with a strong preference for men.”  
  
Harry stared at him.  
  
“Did you really think,” Draco asked, his eyebrows climbing a bit higher, “that I went without while my wife refused to share a bedroom with me?”  
  
“Well, no, but I thought—women—“ Harry fell silent, and he was staring at Draco goggle-eyed, as if the mere thought that Draco might not find his words or the images that had stormed his dreams disgusting had shocked him.  
  
Draco  _burned_. God, he wanted to show Harry how very not disgusting they were. He might not know Harry well yet, but the fierce, determined support of him, the comfort in the face of Marian’s disappearance, the pleasure in the sight of Scorpius—all of those were things that he had never required of any of his lovers, because he knew he wouldn’t get them. Harry could be more than any of those men had been, because he had it in him to be more already. Draco wouldn’t have to be cool and reserved with him just to maintain a position of strength. Harry accepted both the vulnerability and the strength in Draco.  
  
And if he could be brought to see that he didn’t need to receive pleasure from an exclusively female body—  
  
Despite knowing it was probably too soon, Draco found himself trying to convince Harry of that.  
  
“Is it really so different?” he coaxed, his voice falling lower, into a graceful, impassioned register he had barely ever heard from himself. “Men and women both have tongues and mouths, nipples and hands, Harry. And hearts, for that matter. We’re both human. I wouldn’t say that everyone could see it that way, no, but you’ve grown more open-minded and more steadfast since I first knew you. I daresay that you could come to that kind of position.”  
  
“It’s actually not that,” Harry said. His hands trembled, before he folded them on top of each other and pretended they had never done any such thing. The primness would have made Draco smile ordinarily, but now it only made his longing increase. “I—I mean, it was the first thing that it occurred to me to say, but if  _many_  things had been different, I could have learned to love a man, I think. It’s not that. It’s Ginny. I’m married. I’m going to stay faithful.”  
  
He lifted his head, and Draco saw a determination in his eyes that not even the most resolute effort of his could ever beat down.  
  
 _If there’s going to be a move on this—and I won’t overrule the possibility now—then it will have to come from him._  
  
“Of course you want to,” said Draco, allowing his voice to lift into normal airs again. He saw Harry relax, and gave a subtle nod. Yes, it had been too soon. Harry would have to become more comfortable around him before he tried it again. “I wouldn’t ever fault that. Tell me something else the dreams have been about. Even if we  _are_ lovers in that world, we can’t stay in bed all the time.”  
  
Harry laughed. Draco’s throat itched with want. He told it to go away. He’d borne with unrequited desire before this, and what were the last ten years but an exercise in how to deal with dashed hopes? He  _would_  do this.   
  
“There’s one,” Harry said, his eyes lit again, “where we’re on holiday. I forgot why, or else I never had the dream that told me why. So you wanted to Portkey to an island—one of the Bahamas, I think. But I wanted to go to Peru.”  
  
“Peru?” Draco asked. “Whatever  _for_?”  
  
“They have Peruivan Vipertooth Dragons there,” said Harry, as if this were an entirely reasonable thing to say. “I’ve always wanted to see one. I never did get the chance to see one in the Triwizard Tournament, you’ll remember.” A brief wistful look crossed his face.  
  
“After a dragon almost boiled you alive, forgive me for assuming that you’d never want to see one again.”  
  
Harry laughed a second time. Draco had to cross his legs. “Oh, that’s not the only one I’ve ever been close to. There was also the one that I used to escape from Gringotts when Ron and Hermione and I broke into the vaults.”  
  
“ _What_.” Draco said it so flatly that he reminded himself of his father.  
  
“Yes.” Harry grinned at him. “But neither of those dragons was a Peruvian Vipertooth. So I want to see one.”  
  
“Get back to the story, Potter,” Draco said, rolling his eyes.  _Only Harry Potter would want to be close to a large, dangerous beast with nasty, sharp, pointy teeth and a habit of frying its victims alive._  
  
“So there was an argument about the Portkey,” Harry resumed easily, folding his arms behind his head as if dragons were relaxing. “I tried to enchant it to take us to Peru, and you enchanted it to take us to your island, wherever it was, and we both cast the counterspell about five times. And then we both grabbed it and cast at the same time, and we ended up halfway between Peru and the Bahamas—somewhere in northern South America, if I remember correctly. We had a hell of a time finding a way back. And then you didn’t speak to me for three days, and then you shagged me into the bed again. And shagged me quite enthusiastically on the way back, you understand.”  
  
Draco felt another sharp stab of craving, but this time it wasn’t sexual, or not entirely sexual. He wanted a life where he could have argued with Harry like that, where he could have gone on adventures beside him, where they’d end up somewhere in northern South America and still be lovers and friends. It seemed quite unfair that this other version of him should have had all the luck.  
  
He shook his head and reminded himself that the other version of him did not actually exist. Then he exhaled and said, “That sounds more detailed than my visions. Of course, I never spent long staring into a mirror, with reason.” He quirked his lips when he saw Harry staring at the silver scars on his right forearm. “None of them ever attacked me like that before, but I always thought they could.”  
  
Harry nodded. “And what did you see when you  _did_  look into them?”  
  
“Me and you,” said Draco. “Embracing, usually. Making love. Tonguing each other’s necks,” he couldn’t help adding.  
  
Harry’s eyes rested on his neck for a moment. Then he looked away and coughed. “Well. I should go to Hermione and see what she can tell me about spells to determine how blood was shed.”  
  
Draco nodded. He could have kept Harry here and talked to him happily for hours more, but the first intense need had passed, and he  _had_  promised that he wouldn’t strain their friendship by dwelling too much on the sexual tension underlying it.  
  
Even if that tension was obvious and everywhere, snarling and flickering under their simplest interaction like a brooding storm.  
  
“Bring Al back any time you like,” he added. “It would do Scorpius good to have a friend his own age, too.”  
  
The softened look he received for that was worth more than Harry’s blush when he talked about shagging Draco and being shagged. Draco smiled back, and told himself that if their relationship never went further than that, he could be content.  
  
 _Almost._  
  
*  
  
 _“Never going to let you go, you bastard—“  
  
Harry tipped his head back and moaned. His ears were a particular weakness, and Draco knew it. Hell, Draco knew every single one of his weaknesses, and was never above exploiting any of them._  
  
The perils of having a Slytherin lover,  _Harry thought hazily, and then his attention was submerged again as Draco attacked him, blowing and licking on his neck and ears, crawling on top of his body as Harry writhed on the mattress, already rendered nearly helpless with pleasure from the touches Draco had subjected him to so far. They were both naked; Draco had torn off their robes as soon as he got Harry into their bedroom. Normally, he enjoyed undressing slowly, but not this time.  
  
This time, there had been a major misunderstanding. Harry had overheard Draco playing a complicated joking game with Blaise Zabini, and it had sounded as though Draco would be happier if Harry left. Harry, stung, had removed most of his effects from Malfoy Manor and then confronted Draco, with a memorized, prideful speech about how he could tell when he wasn’t wanted.  
  
Draco had screamed at him, told him the truth, and then dragged him in and prepared to fuck him wildly, in that order. And Harry could do nothing but yield and moan the moment he properly understood.  
  
“Never going to let you go,” Draco whispered to him. “It would kill me, you realize? After everything we’ve been through, life-debts and kidnapping and that disastrous attempt to be friends with each other’s friends and all, I_ can’t.”  
  
 _An hour ago, Harry would have doubted the truth of that. Now, feeling Draco’s fingers dipping between his legs, toying with his nipples, rolling his balls, he couldn’t. The touches were light, but he could feel the possessive force behind them. Their relationship had never been anything less than volatile, which was one thing that made Harry’s friends worry for him. They didn’t think it was_  normal  _for fights in which a couple seriously tried to knock each other’s teeth in to be a part of their repertoire.  
  
But it was the way he and Draco were, and Harry would not have wanted to change it for the world. And he was so glad that it wasn’t ending that he could barely breathe, and so impatient that he wrapped his legs around Draco’s waist and dragged him in. And Draco gasped with laughter and curses intermingled in his voice, and said—_  
  
Harry’s eyes snapped open, and he shivered. He was aware of two things almost immediately. He hadn’t known it was a dream this time.  
  
And he was hard, so hard that he knew he would come if he moved, and the arousal he usually woke with was sheer  _need._  
  
He closed his eyes and lay still. Beside him, Ginny was also still. This time, Harry realized that she almost certainly wasn’t asleep.  
  
But neither of them said anything. Harry was too mortified, and Ginny seemed determined not to initiate the conversation.  
  
 _I hate this_ , Harry thought, staring at the ceiling, and resisting the urge to reach down and touch himself. Just a touch would bring him off, would damp the flames eating him from the inside out—would betray his wife. It was one thing to find unconscious release in a wet dream, but he wouldn’t do it when  _he’d_  be the one at fault.  _I hate this curse. I want it ended. I don’t want to have these dreams._  
  
And so on and on he and Ginny lay, while Harry waited for his need to cool to manageable want and his erection to deflate, and his wife’s side of the bed throbbed hurt at him.  
  
He shamed himself by thinking of Draco’s courage against an interest that he had far more reason than Harry to indulge, with his inclination for men already acknowledged and his bond with his wife passionless.  
  
 _If he can do it—if he can preserve this friendship spotless, and back off when he realizes he’s crossed the line—then I can, too. I_  will.  _I won’t hurt him, and I won’t hurt Ginny, like this._  
  
And I won’t hurt myself, either.   
  
It made a fair bid to be the most uncomfortable night he’d ever spent, but Harry clung grimly to his stillness nonetheless. There were things more important than comfort.


	13. Self-Ultimatum

“Hermione.” Harry let out a breath of relief as he clasped his friend’s hand. He’d tried to visit her yesterday, as soon as he left Malfoy Manor, but she’d been out of the Blood Reparations office, attempting to stop a pure-blood-Muggleborn disagreement that had the potential to build up into a riot. “I’m glad you’re here.”  
  
Hermione lifted her eyebrows and gave him a small smile. She didn’t look like a woman who had just given birth to her second child a few days ago and had a problem with the birth in the bargain. The ten years since the war had tempered her more than any of them, Harry thought. Of course, she was doing the hardest and most thankless job of all, listening day in and day out to petty insults, the airing of both sides’ silliest prejudices, and the mistakes of people she politically agreed with. It made sense that she’d become harder or have to give the job up fairly soon, and one thing Hermione did  _not_  do was give up.  
  
“It must be important, whatever it is,” she said, and invited him into her office. The small room she’d fought so long and hard to get from the Ministry was a firetrap, crowded with so much paper—parchment, scrolls, books, loose drafts of legislation in progress—that one  _poof_  of flame on one piece would take everything else. “The people who saw you passing out of here yesterday said you looked desperate.”  
  
Harry gave a small, resigned grimace, and cleaned several of the parchments off one of the chairs. Hermione had adapted to the Ministry by using its endless gossip network for her own purposes, and so he shouldn’t be surprised that someone would have tattled to Hermione, or that she’d listened.  
  
“There are two problems I need your help with, actually,” he said. “One relates to the Malfoy murder case, and one’s personal.”  
  
“The Malfoy murder case!” Hermione ran a hand down her face and stuck her tongue out. She was sitting behind a desk, Harry knew, but since all the wood was covered, it looked more like a fortress built of books. “You wouldn’t believe how much of our resources that’s eating up already. The Muggleborn factions want us to arrest Malfoy, the pure-bloods are screaming and threatening demonstrations if we  _do_  arrest him, and the Aurors who don’t like former Death Eaters are interfering in every attempt I make to calm the situation down.”  
  
“I’m trying to find the truth,” said Harry, as soothingly as he could. If Hermione started complaining, she wouldn’t stop until she had her full say—and that could take hours. “But there’s a twist to the case that needs to be explained. Draco’s wife has vanished, and she’s left a great deal of blood all over her room. We know it comes from her, but I need that spell you learned that tells how and why the blood was spilled.”  
  
Hermione blinked once, and then nodded. “You think she might be part of the group trying to bring him down?”  
  
“I can’t be sure of that,” Harry admitted, “and I don’t want to jump to conclusions. But if the spell can show us that she spilled her own blood deliberately, hoping it would get him in trouble, then I’m more likely to believe it than I feel right now.”  
  
Hermione nodded and waved her wand in a complex fourfold movement, murmuring a rapid spell under her breath. Harry was just about to tell her that she would have to repeat the spell more slowly if she wanted him to master it when a pile of paper across the room glowed green and a book came swooping out of it and into Hermione’s hands. The tower of paper fell over. Hermione didn’t seem to notice.  
  
“That wasn’t a Summoning Charm,” Harry said, watching in some bafflement as she opened the book and flicked through pages with an expert finger.  
  
“Hmmm,” Hermione agreed.  
  
“Wouldn’t a Summoning Charm have been easier to use?”  
  
“I put this book under a code spell that even I can’t translate without the countercharm,” said Hermione, not looking up. “There are a few pieces of magic here that I don’t want to see in anyone else’s hands; they’d undo half the things the Department checks for. And I thought there was no reason not to give the countercharm a Summoning component, as well.”  
  
Harry squirmed a bit. Hermione’s work ethic, as it had done since their Hogwarts days, made him uncomfortable. Somehow Hermione balanced her children, her relationship with Ron, and endless work. Why couldn’t  _Harry_  balance taking care of his children, his relationship with Ginny, his work for the Department, his time with Teddy, and the—the friendship, or whatever it was, with Malfoy?  
  
“Ah, here it is,” said Hermione, and passed the book across the fortress to him. Harry studied the spell, and nodded in satisfaction. The wand movements were adapted from the same spell he had used to find out if the blood was Marian’s, and the incantation was similar. He had it memorized in a few minutes.  
  
“Now,” said Hermione, when she’d cast the spells that coded the book again and returned it to its pile, “what was the personal matter?”  
  
Harry licked his lips. “Has Ginny told you about the dreams that I’ve had?” he asked. “In detail?”  
  
Hermione’s eyes focused on him. “Yes,” she said, and her voice sharpened until it could cut. “And that the dreams concern Malfoy, and usually leave you aroused, in fact.”  
  
Harry could feel his ears burning. He nodded twice, because once didn’t seem sufficient. “Yes, well,” he said. “Part of what I’m working on with Malfoy is a way to stop these dreams. He’s had similar visions, though they’re confined to mirrors.”  
  
Hermione hissed under her breath. “Even  _I’ve_  heard about Malfoy’s extramarital affairs, Harry,” she said. “Are you sure he won’t try to seduce you?”  
  
“I—Hermione, for God’s sake—“ Harry stood up. “What makes you think that even if he tried, I’d go  _along_  with it?”  
  
“I’m sorry.” Hermione lifted a hand to placate him. “I’ve just listened to Ginny’s complaints about this for years now, since she felt she couldn’t talk to you until you decided to address the subject, and I’ve adopted her point-of-view. But I’m glad that you want to get rid of them. That is what you want, isn’t it?”  
  
Harry sat down, trying to soothe his own ruffled feathers.  _You’ve ignored them for ten years. You can’t really blame her for thinking that you might have been influenced by them._  
  
“Yes,” he said. “I want you to brew me some Dreamless Sleep Potion, since I can hardly will them to stop, and I’m pants at potions.”  
  
Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she said, “You know that it’s addictive if you use it too often? You’ll have to confine it to three nights out of the week. And it’s best if they’re not consecutive.”  
  
Harry had thought he remembered something like that. “Yes,” he said. “I know. But I’m going to talk with Ginny, too. The potion is more important for showing her that I mean it, that I hate these dreams and want to get rid of them.”  
  
“Good.” Hermione smiled at him. “I’d suggest you—well, far be it from me to give you advice about your sex life, Harry, but I know how easy it is to let work and children take precedence over that. Don’t let them take precedence, not right now. And you especially should avoid giving her the impression that Malfoy matters to you all that much.”  
  
“Thank you, Hermione.” Harry stood and reached out across the book fortress to shake her hand. “I think I’m letting this Malfoy murder case get to me too much; the pressure is making me think I have to solve everything,  _now_ , or I’m not doing enough good.”  
  
“I know the feeling.” Hermione sighed dismally and waved him out. “The potion should be ready by tomorrow.”  
  
A slight cheerful note in her voice relieved Harry of some of his guilt for increasing her workload. A busy Hermione was a happy Hermione, or she would never have lasted as the Head of the Blood Reparations Department.  
  
*  
  
“ _Cruor eccillum_!”  
  
Draco blinked as light rose in a sheer white fountain from Harry’s wand, and then whipped around like a massive octopus to every corner of the room, stretching searching arms. He ducked as one of them went over his head, but quickly realized it was reaching for a spot of blood on the wall behind him.  
  
Harry gave a loud sigh, and Draco looked back at him. Now that he was giving himself permission to notice things like this, he could see the weariness settled like a load of gravel in the back of Harry’s green eyes. It wasn’t ordinary weariness, he thought, staring. More like the worn-down endurance of someone who had gone into an unpleasant situation once and knew he would have to do it again and again, until something changed or the problem was solved.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Harry chuckled self-consciously and raised a hand to his face. “Did I forget to brush my teeth this morning?”  
  
“You look tired,” said Draco, deciding that honesty was worthwhile in this instance. The spell was still gathering up the bloodstains and funneling them towards the center, which was gold, and it looked as if it would take a while. “Care to tell me why?”  
  
Harry’s cheeks flushed, and for a moment he looked cornered, as if he would rather run out of the room than answer Draco’s question. Then he visibly gathered himself, stood more upright, and coughed. “Well, I’ve been having the dreams more frequently,” he said. “And—I had a bad one the other night.”  
  
“A nightmare?” Draco asked in concern. Of course their alternate life together, or their possible, could-have-been life, could not be pleasant and light-filled all the time.  
  
“Not in and of itself, but in its effects, yes.” Harry tensed his shoulders and gave them a little shake. “Basically, the damn thing aroused me like none of the others have, which makes me think they’ll get stronger, not weaker. And then I woke up, and this time I knew Ginny was awake. The other times, she feigned sleep well enough to fool me.” Harry shrugged and looked at the floor with a small laugh. “I’ve been to Hermione for a Dreamless Sleep Potion, and I’ll talk to Ginny about it as soon as I get home. And I don’t know why I’m telling you this, really, except that I think you deserve to know. In case my attempt to stop the dreams—deepens the curse or something. Don’t know why it would, but then, we don’t know much of anything about the curse, do we?” He looked up, his face caught somewhere between melancholy and defiant, and captured Draco’s eyes.  
  
Draco licked his lips. He supposed he should feel sorry for Harry; the man carried one burden he didn’t, since Draco had never had dreams like that, and he didn’t have a wife who would be hurt by his having sex with another man in his dreams, anyway.  
  
But all he really felt was irritated, as if the dreams were something he wanted to happen and Harry’s wife was an obstacle in their path.  
  
 _Harry has to make the first move, remember?_  he reminded himself.  _And from the sounds of it, it’ll come sooner or later. He won’t be able to help himself_. He looked up with a small smile. “It sounds like you’re taking adult steps to handle it, Harry. I would have been horribly tempted to sulk and make it Marian’s task to address it first.”  
  
Harry laughed eagerly, as much to say that he was glad Draco was taking it so well.  _He would feel differently if he knew how much I want him_ , Draco thought, but tucked the thoughts under a thick coverlid, just in case those rumors about Harry being able to read minds were true. Friendship, for right now. Friendship was all they could have.  
  
For right now.  
  
“Thank you, Draco,” Harry said, and clapped him on the shoulder. Draco ignored the racing silkiness that spread from the touch, especially since Harry was staring beyond him with a suddenly grim face. “And it looks like we have the proof that Marian shed the blood herself,” he added.  
  
Draco turned. The golden glow in the center of the room had turned into an image that flickered, like the picture on a Muggle telly Draco had once glanced at in fascinated repulsion. The image showed Marian, with an expression as stubborn as Harry’s, drawing her wand down her body, creating a long cut that she kept reopening each time it closed. When she finished, she reached out and grasped something small that made her disappear in a whirl of colors.  
  
“She took a Portkey out,” Draco said quietly, though he knew it was stating the obvious. “She  _planned_  this, down to the last detail.”  
  
“It does look that way.” Harry cleared his throat and banished the image with a wave of his wand, then moved towards Draco hesitantly. Draco could feel the small hairs on the back of his neck and arms straining towards that heat. “Are you—do you need—“ Then he seemed to give up on questions as a bad job, and simply wrapped his arms around Draco, tugging him back against his chest.  
  
Harry was overestimating how much this hurt, Draco thought numbly. He hadn’t loved or even liked his wife in years, and now the main thought echoing through his head was how he could have been so stupid as to house a serpent in his manor and not know it. And how stupid he’d been to keep her so close to Scorpius, of course.  
  
But Harry was offering comfort, and Draco didn’t want to turn it down. He squirmed around until he was facing Harry and hugged him back, taking the opportunity to put his hands in Harry’s hair and run them up and down his spine. He didn’t miss the way Harry’s breath caught when he did that, either, though he probably wasn’t aware of it himself.  
  
 _I am going to win_ , Draco thought, and he couldn’t have said whether the thought was directed at Marian or Ginny Potter.  
  
*  
  
“So that’s it.” Harry took a deep breath and squeezed Ginny’s hands. “I’ve had dreams for years that I was living a separate life with Malfoy, and the Dreamless Sleep will only stop them for a short time. But I think it’s even more important that we remake the commitment to each other, and that we stop ignoring and not talking about things just because it hurts to talk about them.” He ran a hand through Ginny’s hair. She sat facing him in a chair in the study, and her face was so pale that he half-worried she hadn’t heard most of what he said. “We’ll begin this evening. Ask me any question you want to.”  
  
Ginny shut her eyes, finally. Harry let out a little breath of relief. She had a perfect right to feel the mixture of hurt and betrayal she was feeling right now, but frankly, it also hurt to have her watching him.   
  
“Why did you avoid talking about it for so long?” Ginny asked in a tiny voice.  
  
“Because I thought if I ignored them, they would go away.”  
  
She slitted one eye to peer at him, and she was angry now. Good, Harry thought. He could deal with anger more easily than tears. “That’s a stupid life philosophy for anything, Harry, but especially a curse.”  
  
Harry hissed at her, since the adult thing was to let himself experience his own emotions, too. “Well, the attempts I  _did_  make didn’t work. St. Mungo’s couldn’t find anything. Hermione couldn’t find anything. And  _you_  never wanted to talk about them, either, if you recall.”  
  
“I was waiting for you to talk first.”  
  
“Why?” Harry really couldn’t comprehend why she’d waited for so long when she was hurting. He understood his own cowardice, and her silence had been easy to comprehend when he thought she was unaware of the sexual nature of the dreams.   
  
“Because—“ Ginny clenched her hands suddenly, ripping them away from him. Harry shook his stinging palms and wondered if she had noticed. Probably not, because she was pacing back and forth, totally involved in her own anger. “Because I wanted to see if you trusted me enough to be honest,” she told the wall. “And every time you kept silent, I thought you probably didn’t trust me that much. It was  _important_  that you approached me first, Harry.”  
  
“And now I have.” Harry stood up, keeping his hands away from his wand. He and Ginny had only had a few arguments that escalated to the use of magic, most of them before their children were born, and all of them had ended disastrously. “So what will you do about it, Ginny? Just ignore it some more?”  
  
“No.” Two more deep breaths, sounding choked with tears, as if she were fighting against the introduction of something vital but painful to the conversation. Harry swallowed. He forced himself to wait, though he also dreaded whatever could be making Ginny sound like that.  
  
“I want you to get therapy.”  
  
Harry snarled in spite of himself. “ _What?_  It’s a curse, not suppressed memories! It won’t go away just because I talk to someone else about my childhood or my war trauma or whatever else someone pokes into your head about!”  
  
“But even when the curse ends, the memories will still be there.” Ginny wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “Don’t you see, Harry? You’re not just dreaming about sex or someone else. I know the curse inspired that, and you can’t help it. But you’re getting  _aroused_  from it. That’s—there’s something else, there, something that points to sexual incompatibility between us.”  
  
“Ginny, I love you,  _and_  I love making love to you—“  _Even though we haven’t done it in months._  
  
“And you could also love making love to someone else,” Ginny said firmly. She turned around, her hands braced on her hips. “I just want to  _know_ , Harry. Are you bisexual? Are you enjoying these fantasies because something is lacking in our sex life?” She shook her head, her voice softening as she saw his expression. “I don’t think this is disgusting, if that’s what you’re worried about. I just want to know, and I think the only way I can is if  _you_  know.”  
  
Harry swallowed again. The mere thought of talking about his sex life to a stranger made him blush—  
  
 _But you’re doing it with Draco. Will doing it with a therapist really be that different?_  
  
And he had said he would do whatever was necessary to repair the breach in his marriage. He no longer thought, as he had when he was young, that he could outrun his problems. His attempt to ignore the dreams had been the last remnant of that philosophy. He would live with both Ginny and Draco after this, and if therapy was necessary to understand himself and content his wife—well, then he would do it.  
  
“All right,” he said.   
  
Ginny blinked. Evidently, she’d been anticipating a longer fight. “Really?”  
  
Harry nodded. “I don’t think you’re right,” he said, just to prove that point. “I think the reactions I’ve had are only a result of the curse. Why shouldn’t the dreams be able to cause a physical reaction, when they’re cursed dreams? But I’ll at least go to one therapy session, and see what happens.”  
  
 _The newspapers will have a field day with this_ , he thought gloomily, already picturing the  _Daily Prophet_  article that would surely result:  **HARRY POTTER FINDS OUT HE’S GAY!**  They wouldn’t care about the truth.  
  
But he’d lived with worse.  
  
“And now,” he said, reaching out a hand to his shining-eyed wife, “we should still have at least another hour before the kids wake up from their nap. Why don’t we put it to good use?” He smiled at her.  
  
Ginny blushed, and then clasped his hand. She looked happier than she had in months. Harry drew her close for a kiss.  
  
 _It doesn’t take much to make her happy, it really doesn’t._  
  
*  
  
The message came while Teddy and Andromeda were visiting. Harry had just finished reading a story to James, reassuring Al that, yes, he would see his new friend Scorpius soon, and handing a sweetly smiling Lily to Andromeda. He was turning to ask Teddy if he’d like another story about his parents—Teddy approached them slowly, carefully, as if the day he knew everything about his mother and father was the day he would lose his growing connection with them—when the fireplace flared green.  
  
“Harry!”  
  
Harry was glad that he wasn’t holding a baby anymore as he moved rapidly across the floor and knelt down in front of the fireplace. He hadn’t seen Draco in a few days, since Draco said he wanted to do some more research on dreams and life-debts and it would be best if he did it alone. His voice was sharp, but also inspired with triumph, as though Draco had found out something worth knowing.  
  
“Yes?” he asked, and Draco told him the thing worth knowing.  
  
“Marian’s been seen in Diagon Alley, Harry! One of my mother’s Ministry contacts saw her!” Draco was whispering, but his voice rose back to normal levels as he added, “I’m in Madam Malkin’s now. How soon can you come through?”  
  
Harry leaned back and looked at Andromeda. Her face was very pale, but she held Lily close with one arm, put her other hand on Teddy’s shoulder, and nodded at him.  
  
“I’ll stay with the children, of course,” she said. “I’ll need to send an owl to a friend who was expecting me, but I can stay.”  
  
“Thank you!” Harry shouted, and took a moment to make sure he had his wand with him before he sprang through the fire into Madam Malkin’s shop.  
  
Draco was waiting for him. He had on a set of formal robes, dark blue and striped with white, that Harry hadn’t seen before. He found himself thinking Draco looked good, and shook his head. He’d taken Dreamless Sleep for two of the last nights. Perhaps the dreams were trying to have their revenge by making him want to step closer to Draco and stare in open admiration.  
  
Draco didn’t seem to notice, luckily, and neither did Madam Malkin, who hovered behind Draco, her eyes bright with the excitement of being close to important deeds. “This way!” Draco said, grabbing Harry’s wrist and tugging him towards the door of the shop. “She was seen not far from here, at one of the food shops, and we might still be able to catch her if we run!”  
  
Harry willingly stretched his legs. His heartbeat filled his ears, and he felt the dizzy urge to laugh aloud. Perhaps they were close to solving the mystery at last!  
  
*  
  
Three hours later, Harry not only had to concede that they weren’t any closer to solving the mystery, but that Draco’s attractiveness lessened considerably when he was in a foul mood. He’d stomped through the last three shops swearing, and now that they were heading back to Madam Malkin’s from the Leaky Cauldron, he had settled on a dark scowl that warned Harry not to try and talk to him.  
  
Harry sighed and wiped a hand over his brow. The search for Marian had turned into a hunt for shadows after nothing at all. No one had seen her, exactly, but they’d all seen someone like her. Or a woman with burn scars on her face had come into the shop last week, did they mean her? Or perhaps they’d seen a dark-haired woman sometime in the last fortnight, that might be who they were looking for, right?  
  
Matters hadn’t been helped by the usual crowd of autograph-hunters after Harry, or the people who stopped to stare, and spit, at Draco. Harry had cast a spell that reversed the spit so it landed on the aggressors’ faces instead, and done another one that made their voices simply desert them if they tried to insult Draco, but the damage was done. Draco’s back grew stiffer and stiffer as the afternoon wore on, and his manners with the shopkeepers didn’t improve, either, especially with the ones who wore symbols that openly proclaimed allegiance to one or more of the Muggleborn groups.  
  
They were almost back to Madam Malkin’s, at least. They just had to pass one more shop with a large glass display window for its goods, which seemed to be jewelry. Harry glanced at them in disinterest.  
  
And then he saw shapes and shadows swarming in the glass, turning blue like shadows on snow, reaching towards them like an enormous hand.  
  
He leaped sideways at Draco, but it was too late; the hand had already punched through the window, and glass shards were raining everywhere, traveling past Harry’s ears with piercing whistles. He felt them nick at his throat and hair, but his main concern was Draco, who had turned towards his sudden movement and caught the glass full in the face.   
  
They landed on the cobblestones, and Harry gritted his teeth as he felt the enormous force pulling at him, trying to bring them back into the window. He thought of Lily with all his might, her softness and warmth and the sweet baby-smell of her, and the pulling force paused, then ebbed away like a tide.  
  
He bent over Draco, staring, frantic—  
  
And the world turned golden.  
  
This time, he could hear a voice singing in ecstasy, and an even stronger smell filled his nostrils, like fresh air and salt spray, like the sea. Harry tried to move, but he had lost all sense of his body, save where his hand rested on Draco’s forehead. Pressure bore down from each of his fingertips, anchoring him to Draco’s head whether he wanted to be anchored or not, and he heard his breath leave him in a long hiss.  
  
And the next moment, the gold was gone, and Harry was blinking down at Draco, who lay on the street before him, unconscious, with both his eyes intact—thank God—but with a thin, jagged silver scar snaking across his brow.  
  
Harry’s eyes narrowed, and his mind reached towards some conclusion. When it came, he thought, it would be outstanding.  
  
He became aware of someone poking at his shoulder, and he lifted a hand to shoo the intruder away. “We’re fine, we don’t need help, thanks,” he said distractedly.  
  
“I disagree, sir,” said a smooth voice from above him. “Why, look at you! You’re practically about to fall unconscious.”  
  
Harry looked up, opening his mouth in annoyance, and only then saw that, within the hooded cloak his “rescuer” wore, the face was covered by the sleek emerald-green mask of the pure-blood supremacist group called Salazar’s Snakes.  
  
“ _Stupefy_ ,” said the smooth voice before Harry could move to grab his wand, and then there was nothing but a long, long fall into darkness and worry about Draco.


	14. The Box

Harry woke so slowly that he had the impression he was walking down a dark road long before he opened his eyes. Oddly enough, there was softness beneath his head, but when he shifted, the softness squirmed and kicked him.  
  
“Get off me, Potter,” Draco hissed, and Harry shut his just-opened eyes in sheer relief. Draco was well enough to complain. That was an excellent sign. “They put us here and dumped you on top of me, and now that you can hold your own head up, you can damn well  _get off me_.”  
  
Harry sat up and felt at his face. They had left him his glasses. Of course, the reason they had done that soon became obvious, since he and Draco were in darkness so thick he couldn’t see anyway, but that didn’t change the sense of relief he felt at the discovery.   
  
“Couldn’t let poor Harry Potter be uncomfortable, could you, Draco-Waco?” he murmured.  
  
“If you’ll stop your childish insults,” Draco said, his voice calm and intense, “you might realize we’re in a spot of trouble here.”  
  
Harry blew away the impulse to make another morbid joke. It would have helped ease Ron’s stress, but he wasn’t in this bad situation with Ron.  _More’s the pity_. He felt more comfortable planning an escape with his best friend than he did with Draco.  
  
But needs must. He slapped his hand down on the floor, confirming it was smooth, fitted stone, and began to feel ahead of him, to estimate how large the cell was. About fifteen paces by twenty, he thought, though why they should have given prisoners a room so large he didn’t know. But it couldn’t have been more than a temporary holding place, with the lack of anything to eat and a place to relieve themselves.  
  
 _Unless they just don’t care whether this room stinks_.   
  
Harry closed his eyes, trying to remember what he’d heard of the methods of Salazar’s Snakes. They did the usual busywork that most of the pure-blood supremacist groups indulged in, of course: threatening letters to politically prominent Muggleborns, odd prank spells going off at all hours of the day and night around their targets’ homes, their symbol—a green snake clutching a bleeding hand in its mouth—left here and there on walls. But they didn’t take credit for as much blood magic and wide-scale terror as the other groups did.  
  
Hermione had thought it was because Salazar’s Snakes were more disaffected than hateful. Harry was inclined to doubt that now. Instead, they probably wanted to keep their strength and their usual behaviors secret, hidden from expectations, so that when they finally acted it would come as a surprise.  
  
Their capture in Diagon Alley had certainly been smooth, he thought with a certain reluctant admiration. They had probably played the part of mediwizards from St. Mungo’s rushing to the sides of accident victims, or of concerned bystanders who had volunteered to take Harry and Draco to the hospital. Move quickly enough, close around them thoroughly enough, and no one would have noticed that the victims were Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.  
  
No one might even have noticed they were missing, yet.  
  
As he felt for wounds they might have inflicted on him, Harry asked, “Do you know how long we’ve been here, Draco?”  
  
“Yes,” Draco said solemnly. “I have a pocket-watch that begins ticking when I’m captured by my enemies, and chirps every five minutes to helpfully tell me how much time has passed since the capture.”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes, but didn’t comment. Obviously, Ron dealt with captivity by joking, and Draco dealt with captivity by being a prat. “Are you hurt?”  
  
“Not as much as I should be after taking a faceful of glass.”  
  
There was a question in Draco’s voice, and Harry told himself that he owed it to the other man to answer it. He forced himself to sit flat on the floor and turn around. His back was comfortably against a wall, though since he hadn’t yet located any door, it might open behind him at any time. “The curse took over again,” he admitted, “just like that night the mirror slashed your arm open. I saw golden light, and my touch seemed to heal the wound. But I think you have a scar on your forehead now.”  
  
He could feel Draco’s tension humming through the darkness, but he said nothing for some time. Harry felt cautiously across the wall behind him. Nothing.  
  
“You mean,” Draco said, his voice so thick and fierce that it took Harry a long moment to understand the words, “that I have a scar on my forehead— _just like you_?”  
  
And the insight that had been trying to surface in Harry’s mind when Salazar’s Snakes sneaked up on them came to him at last. He clapped his hands together, and heard Draco make a startled sound. Harry ignored it, his mind racing back across what had happened the night Draco ended up in front of the exploding mirror, and what Draco had already told him about the operation of the curse on his part.  
  
“That’s exactly what it’s trying to do,” he whispered. “Mark us in the same ways.”  
  
“Is there any chance of your sharing the meaning of your idiotic babble with me today, Potter?”  
  
“The scars,” Harry said. “You told me that the scars from the spell I cast at you in sixth year still tingle.”  
  
“Yes,” Draco said, in a querulous tone.  
  
“I’m marked in four places,” Harry said softly. “My forehead, yes, but also on my hand, my forearm, and over my heart.”  
  
More tense silence, and Harry passed the time by feeling for his wand, even though he was sure that it had been taken from him. It had. And Draco couldn’t have his, either, or he would have least cast a  _Lumos_  or tried to alert someone to their predicament.  
  
“I’m marked on my arm, my chest, and my forehead now,” he said, sounding strangled.  
  
“Exactly,” said Harry, giving up the search and making his way back across the cell towards Draco’s voice. He took the other man’s hand, ignoring his startled jerk. It seemed that Draco was, if not actively afraid of the darkness, at least not comfortable in it.  _Yes, he would have definitely called for light if he had his wand_. “That means that you have three scars, and when you have four—“  
  
“We can expect something else disgusting to happen,” Draco snarled.  
  
“Disgusting?” Harry could understand why Draco might be upset or frightened of the curse—what would happen if he endured another accident and Harry was not near at hand to heal the wounds to a scar?—but disgusted was a new reaction.  
  
“Yes.” Draco’s hand closed into a fist within his, and then pulled roughly away. “I endured  _enough_  of things like this when the Dark Lord was alive, Harry. I have no wish to endure more.”  
  
“I understand that,” Harry said, as calmly as he could, “but this might give us a clue to the operation of the curse.”  
  
Draco said nothing.  
  
Harry stifled the impulse to touch him again, and listened in silence to his breathing. It had grown louder—more ragged, quicker. Harry bit his lip thoughtfully. He knew the signs of fear, but he wondered what it was Draco remembered to make him sound like that.  
  
 _It’s not my place to ask, and I won’t insist on knowing unless it becomes vital to our survival_. “We’ll do what we can about it when we escape,” he said.  
  
Draco laughed, then, a sound that seemed just as jerked out of his lungs as his breathing had become. “And how do you think we’ll do that?” he asked. “They took our _wands_ , Harry. And they’ll want to kill me, at least, if Marian is with them. That had to be the price of her aid.”  
  
“Why would a pure-blood supremacist group want to kill  _you_?” Harry asked. Maybe Draco was so frightened at the moment that he needed the simplest truths spelled out for him. Once again, Harry could not really blame him. “You’re a pure-blood.”  
  
“And yet, I  _have_  received threats, and here we are,” Draco said, and by the sound of it, he’d risen to his feet and was pacing. Harry opened his mouth to give a warning, and then shut it. If the floor was utterly smooth, the way it had felt, Draco wouldn’t trip on anything.  
  
 _And since when am I so solicitous for Draco, anyway?_  
  
But he’d felt the same way for Ron the times that he and Ron had worked on Auror cases that crossed the work of the Blood Reparations Department and been captured together. By now, it was almost a routine for them. Ron would joke and hatch useless plans that would only work if they had their wands back, and Harry would listen to the jokes, wait for an opportunity to challenge their captors, and protect his friend from his own hot temper.  
  
Draco might need protection from his own nervousness. Harry forced himself to concentrate on the sound of the other man’s breathing as much as the sound of the words.  
  
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they have us, pure-blood group or not,” Draco was saying. “Unless you want to propose a  _conspiracy_  of groups working against me, which frankly is laughable.”  
  
“I know,” Harry said, but he tucked the thought away to think about later. “Have you heard anything? Laughter, conversations? How soon did you wake up?”  
  
“Not long after they took us, I think.” Draco gave a loud, gusty sigh, which only trembled a bit at the end. Perhaps he was better at controlling his fear now that he knew someone else was awake and with him. “But we were already alone. And I think there are sound-proofing spells on the walls of this room. I leaned my ear against the stone as long as I could bear it, but nothing. And focusing my magic as much as possible—“  
  
“There are magic-deadening charms, too,” Harry said knowledgably. If there had not been, then he would have felt the surge of power within him. He couldn’t do much that was focused without his wand, but he could achieve some spectacular rough effects. “They were taking no chances on us escaping.”  
  
“How did they know we would be in Diagon Alley?” Draco asked. “Do you think Marian set a trap for us?”  
  
“Maybe.” Harry jolted his mind out of thoughts of worry over Draco and tried to make himself think rationally. “She certainly could have showed herself to shopkeepers in altered guises, or paid people to spread rumors. On the other hand, we were in the Alley for three hours before they attacked. And I doubt they could have known that the window would explode before we did. They took advantage of the chance quickly and smoothly, I agree, but their attack doesn’t make much sense.”  
  
“No, it doesn’t—“  
  
The sound of a door sliding open across the room stung Harry like a whip. He was up and between Draco and the door before he had stopped blinking in the positive dazzle of lamplight that whipped at his eyes in turn. He spread his arms wide, offering Draco as much protection as he could, and looked steadily at the wizard who had intruded.  
  
The woman merely stood still, however, and studied him. She wore a hooded cloak and green mask, and Harry could only tell she was a woman from the way she walked and balanced. Either she had extremely short hair or she’d charmed it to lie flat under the hood. She drew a wand and gestured once towards the room beyond her.  
  
The meaning was unmistakable. Harry shuffled forwards closely, turning so that he was always between Draco and the witch. He thought he heard her chuckle as they passed. Though he strained his ears, he still couldn’t recognize her voice.  
  
She walked closely behind them as they passed into the next room. Harry immediately tried to will his wand to come to him, but the same charms must have covered the entire building; his magic lay sleeping within him.  
  
The room was large, enough that Harry thought it was probably in another manor house somewhere. The walls had been disguised with ripples of watery illusion, however, so that all Harry saw when he looked at them were glints of green and blue. Perhaps a portrait frame or a curtain gleamed free here and there; none of it would be enough to identify the room for certain if he saw it again. Even what might have been a chandelier hanging from the ceiling was clad in a glamour like an enormous spiderweb.  
  
The Salazar’s Snakes waited about the room in a circle. All were hooded and cloaked. No one said anything. Harry wanted to snort. Elementary intimidation tactics. Many of the supremacist groups he’d opposed did them  _much_  better.  
  
The woman who’d guided them in moved to stand at the far point of the circle, and the others shifted apart to let her through. Harry raised his eyebrows, and still they continued to stare. Harry cocked his head and wondered if they were also  _breathing_  in unison.  
  
Well, if no one else planned to speak, he would.   
  
“You really don’t want to be present when Hermione finds out what you’ve done,” he said conversationally. “She generally doesn’t react well when someone kidnaps her best friend. Why don’t you give us back our wands and let us go before she  _does_  find out? It would be the smartest thing you’ve done since you captured us in Diagon Alley.”  
  
*  
  
Draco hissed between his teeth.  _Does he_  want  _to die? You don’t speak like that to someone with power over you._  
  
It was a lesson he had learned well during the year the Dark Lord spent so much of his time in Malfoy Manor. Sarcasm had to be given up. Since the Dark Lord was a Legilimens, Draco couldn’t even  _think_  the many things he would have liked to say at first. So he kept his eyes on the floor, and learned to do what he was told when he was told to do it, no matter how distasteful it was, and spent little time with his parents, so as not to render them targets if the Dark Lord grew angry at  _him_.  
  
And Harry glared at their silent, motionless captors as if he were perfectly in control of the situation.  
  
Draco could now believe the stories that Harry had spat at the Dark Lord’s face and challenged him with insults. It was a stupid thing to do, but Harry carried courage into the definition of stupid.  
  
“I assure you,” he said quietly, “I have not changed my mind as radically as you seem to think I have. No Mudblood will walk on the grounds of Malfoy Manor while I live. And I do still have money—plenty of it. My mother can arrange ransom procedures.” It wasn’t really that long ago—a few centuries only—that pure-blood families had sometimes kidnapped the heirs of other prominent lines, usually for money, sometimes for revenge, sometimes for marriage partners. Because anyone who cared to inquire would know that Draco was already married, it couldn’t be the last of those purposes, and Draco couldn’t conceive what they would want revenge on him for. Money, though, was a constant concern of groups like this one, who were hardly able to ask for funding from the Ministry.  
  
“We know about your crimes, Draco Malfoy,” said a disembodied voice that reminded Draco of the voice of the Bloody Baron. He was almost sure it was, in fact. There was a spell that could make the speaker’s voice sound like a ghost’s. Criminals commonly employed it when they didn’t want to be recognized. “We know that for the past ten years, you have fattened yourself on the remains of a pardon and made no effort to relieve the suffering of your father in prison.”  
  
“My father is completing his assigned sentence,” Draco said stiffly. Despite everything, that accusation stung. “Trying to talk the Ministry into lightening it would have jeopardized the future of the family.”  
  
“Excuses,” said the same voice, but perhaps not the same person, since it was coming from elsewhere in the circle now. “Always excuses. Your father was a hero.”  
  
Draco thought of the way his father’s face had looked when the Dark Lord took first his wand and then his home, and bit his tongue, hard. At least there didn’t appear to be a Legilimens among them.  
  
He felt Harry move closer to him, and just barely kept from shaking his head in exasperation. What did Harry think he was going to do? Volunteer to take on any pain curses that might be aimed at Draco? Draco knew how these things went. Harry had been a captive, yes, but never for any length of time. Draco could already feel his instincts shifting back towards what they’d been in that dreadful year, when one denigrated oneself if one wanted to survive.  
  
“He may have been,” he said, his eyes lowered, his voice meek. He need feel no dishonor. He was sure that it was no Mudblood who lectured him, and submitting to the person who held the power at the moment was sheer good sense. “But I like to think that he would commend me for what I am doing: facing my enemies, resisting baseless accusations of murder, and continuing to raise my son to share in the Malfoy legacy, holding it secure for him.”  
  
“There is someone among us who is concerned about the way you raise your son.”  
  
Draco restrained a grim smile.  _Marian. She is one of them, then_. Perhaps she was the one who had taunted him with this. Well, she should have restrained the impulse. Perhaps she had gained some petty, fleeting satisfaction from the maneuver, but Draco had gained far more valuable information. “I know,” he said. “And I would welcome friends who could teach me what my son has missed.”  
  
The witch who had guided them out into the room laughed, but even that was disguised, so that it sounded like wind moaning through open windows. “We are not your friends, Draco Malfoy. We are very far from being your friends.”  
  
“What are you, then?” Draco asked, but the witch turned away and addressed Harry instead of looking at him. Draco folded his hands tightly behind his back, though he knew there were watchers behind them, too, and prayed that Harry wouldn’t say anything too stupid.  
  
“We have had enough of  _you_ , as well, Mr. Potter,” she said. “Your ‘work’ with the Blood Reparations Department has often obstructed many of our dearest goals.”  
  
Draco sneaked a look at Harry. His face was bored, and his arms folded, as if he didn’t care what anyone in the room might say. He shook his head slightly. “And I will continue to do that,” he said. “Hermione even more. I keep trying to tell you, when she finds out that you targeted one of her friends, she’s going to make a target out of _you_.”  
  
Draco thought a few of the wizards shifted uneasily at that, but the witch in the center simply stepped forwards. “The debt we owe you cannot simply be wiped out by blood,” she whispered. “Not even the Cruciatus Curse will bring us the satisfaction we desire.”  
  
“Let me guess,” said Harry. “Each of you will slap me for my impertinence and recite your family trees at me until I die of boredom.”  
  
The witch laughed again, and then took several more steps forwards, until she stood a few inches away from Harry. Draco was suddenly sure that, whatever importance he might hold for the others, Harry was this woman’s focus. She lifted a hand as if she would really slap him, but turned it into a caress on his cheek. Harry jerked his face away, wrinkling his lip in disgust, and Draco felt jealousy wake in him with a sudden snarl. It was bad enough to think of Harry spending the nights with his legitimately bonded wife.  
  
“We have information on you,” she whispered. “We know things about you that would make you tremble to know they were in our possession. How you laugh, how much you like your job—and what your childhood was like.”  
  
Draco glanced at Harry. Harry’s eyes were narrow slits of green. If not for the spells on the room that deadened their ability to perform magic, Draco thought he would have felt Harry’s magic rising and raging around him. Of course, there had been so many rumors in the  _Daily Prophet_  about Harry’s less-than-desirable childhood that Draco wasn’t entirely sure what the truth  _was_ , but Harry didn’t look at all frightened. Only angry that they’d taken the liberty, Draco supposed.  
  
“Ah,” Harry said. “I understand now. You’ll simply recite  _insinuations_  at me until I die of boredom.”  
  
The witch chuckled again, infuriatingly, and glanced at Draco. “And we have information on young Mr. Malfoy, as well,” she said. “From someone who has shared his life for  _quite_  a while, and may know much more than he wants her to, simply because she is a good observer.” She paused dramatically. “Gentlemen, did you know that you share a phobia?”  
  
Harry’s eyes only widened in confusion, but Draco felt his heart suddenly leap like a captured Snitch.  
  
 _No. She wouldn’t. She doesn’t know—_  
  
But she might have. She might have. She had shared his bed for years, and Draco had had nightmares, and he might have cried out during them. And there had been the period when Narcissa had been so anxious to make her daughter-in-law comfortable in the Manor, and had thought the way to do it was to tell her more about Draco’s history.  
  
“You’re lying,” he said, and thought he did quite a good job of feigning coolness around the sour taste in his mouth.  
  
“I am not,” said the witch promptly, and then waved her wand. That made Draco wonder if the magic-dampening spells were on him and Harry, instead of the building. It would make sense, especially with the glamours shimmering on the walls—  
  
He tried to distract himself from what he knew was coming, but it was useless.  
  
Especially when the box floated into the center of the room.  
  
It looked like a coffin, though it was both wider and deeper. Draco stared at it the way he imagined a toddler might regard a Dementor. It was made of some bright, nearly red, polished wood, perhaps cherry. It had a hinged lid that would close down on it—  
  
 _On whoever lay inside—_  
  
He was breathing so fast that he had already dried his mouth out. Harry turned to stare at him uncomprehendingly.  
  
“The fear of small, dark places,” the witch said, and chuckled again. “Mr. Potter grew up in a cupboard, and Mr. Malfoy had a—shall we say, an  _experience_ , with a corner of his parents’ cellar during the war? Provided by his aunt Lestrange, of course. Quite an experience. It lasted three days.” She cocked her head. “Our source of information says that he came out with his sanity intact, but precariously balanced.”  
  
Draco turned to run, despite knowing it would do absolutely no good. A Tripping Jinx closed on him at once, of course, and he pitched to the ground. Then he was floating into the air, and the box’s lid was open, and he was squirming—  
  
He was  _screaming_ , though it was high and thin and soundless. His mind and his blood boiled with the memories of Bellatrix, locking him into place with spells that damped all his senses, in a magic-created cell so small he could barely stand up in it. And now he would be locked in a box smaller than that, shared with  _Potter_ , and there would be spells on the box to muffle noise and feeling, he knew there would, and it would be  _dark_ —  
  
“Enjoy prison, gentlemen,” the witch said, with a deep sigh, as they settled in and the lid swung shut. The voice-altering charm could not disguise that the sound was one of intense vindication.  
  
*  
  
Harry had already seen what would need to be done.  
  
Their information on him was interesting, but incomplete. Harry had never particularly  _liked_  his cupboard, but neither had it given him claustrophobia. He had survived it, and sometimes it had even provided him a safe space from the Dursleys, and that was more than enough to dispel any fear.  
  
Draco, on the other hand, was struggling like a mad thing,  _keening_ , his fear all too much alive. Even if they were rescued soon, Harry thought, he might very well come out of the box insane or catatonic.  
  
The box’s lid sealed and locked. As Harry had anticipated, the inside was utterly dark, without even a line of light to mark the top, and there was just barely room enough for both of them to lie down, facing each other, with their legs tangled together. Sound-proofing spells guarded them from hearing any sound their captors might make or being heard if they screamed, the box’s wood felt like nothing in particular, and other charms had removed any smell and taste from the air. They were not going to suffocate, Harry discerned; a hidden vent gave them fresh air. But it was going to be absolute and endless torture for Draco.  
  
So Harry did what needed to be done. He hummed, verifying to himself that no sound-proofing spells had been cast on the  _inside_  of the box, and then he slid forwards, turning so he was chest to chest with Draco, and wrapped his arms around him. Draco didn’t seem to notice; he was still caught in his silent, furious struggle, though his movements were more restricted now.  
  
“Draco,” Harry said, his voice as calm and deep as he could possibly make it. “Listen to me, Draco. Focus on my voice. It will help you.”  
  
And, drawing his breath, he began to talk.


	15. Talking

“I suppose you think I don’t think much of you, Draco. Well, that’s not true. My feelings didn’t have much of a chance to soften or change in the last ten years, what with our staying so far apart, but they have changed since I knew you in Hogwarts.”  
  
It didn’t make much sense, Draco thought, that his nightmare spoke in the voice of Harry Potter. He shifted slightly away from the noise; it was something that his enemies must have created with a spell to torment him, after all. And then he felt a pair of warm hands against his back.  
  
And sense flooded into his head again, so suddenly he could have gasped. Of  _course_. He was locked in a box with Harry Potter, and Harry was speaking to him so that he could at least have sound to focus on, and now he had touch, as well. Where had he  _been_  during the last few moments, that he could have forgotten so completely?  
  
 _Locked away in your own head, in the terrors that Bellatrix implanted_ , his mind answered.  _And you’ll need to ensure that it doesn’t happen again, any way you can._  
  
“Since I’ve known you at Hogwarts,” Harry was saying, his voice soft and insistent and chasing Draco’s attention back into the present, “I’ve come to see you that can be brave and generous and imaginative and all the traits that I once thought applied only to Gryffindors. You’re just select about the people you choose to show those traits to.” There was a brief pause, as if Harry was considering what to say next or needed to rest his voice. Draco pressed into the hands behind him, both to offer encouragement and to show that he was listening. Harry spoke again at last, voice oddly shy. “Thank you for allowing me to be one of those people who can see you like this.”  
  
And Draco understood, then, what Harry was offering. Not just sound, to keep him sane in a box where most of his senses were gone. Not just touch, though that was a secondary anchor next to his voice. Not even just praise of him, though Draco would gladly drink that in and use it to heal some of the old wounds he still had remaining.  
  
He was offering  _himself_. And Draco was not fool enough to reject that gift.  
  
“Go on,” he whispered.  
  
Harry responded at once, his words as glad and strong as the drawing of a sword. “I think that you’re too hard on yourself, you know. You speak as if you were permanently broken by what you’ve been through—and it’s true that I don’t know all of those things, much as I would like to—“  
  
 _He would?_  Draco had seen no sign, so far, that Harry wanted to pour his heart out to him or listen to his poured out in return.  
  
“But I think you still do better day-to-day than you give yourself credit for. So you’re not the Minister of Magic; there are better jobs that you can be doing anyway.” Harry’s voice deepened and gained a teasing tone. “And I think Kingsley Shacklebolt would rather not share.”  
  
Draco found himself smiling, which struck to the core of his being like a shock, at the image of walking into Shacklebolt’s office and declaring that he liked the décor and would be sharing the desk from now on.  
  
“You’re the father of a brilliant son,” Harry murmured, and his right hand moved a bit up and down Draco’s spine, as though he had felt him shiver and were trying to soothe it. Draco did shake, but it wasn’t with fear, not when he could feel each separate finger pressing his skin through the cloth. “Scorpius couldn’t have been raised by someone as broken as you seem to think you are.”  
  
“It was house-elves who raised him—“  
  
“It was  _you_.” Harry shook his head; Draco knew that because he could feel the wild, crisp hair brushing against his cheeks and chin. “I knew it the day I came to test you with the Veritaserum and saw you holding him. You care  _so much_  for him, Draco. It’s in your eyes, in your hands, in your whole body when you hold him.”  
  
Draco decided that he couldn’t quite let that pass. “So you notice my body, do you, Harry?” he murmured.  
  
And Harry, with courage Draco wouldn’t have had (he could admit that without shame), said, “Yes, I do.”  
  
 _No holding back_. Draco gave another violent shiver.  _No holding back_  anything.  
  
He wanted the gift, but he was not going to take advantage of Harry or make him feel sordid for giving it. He shifted the position of his hands, so that they weren’t just lying uselessly between them anymore, but rising to Harry’s shoulders to embrace him back. His elbows bumped the wood, and for a moment skittering horror tried to take his mind away—  
  
“I’m here, Draco.”  
  
Harry spoke calmly and authoritatively, and Draco, gasping as he burst back into his own body, thought this must be the voice he used to calm down a racing pure-blood mob, the same one he used to let his children know they had gone too far. “Listen to my voice,” Harry said, so completely steady that Draco was nearly convinced he was not made of living flesh until Harry shifted closer to him, accepting the hold of his hands and tilting his head so that his face rested against Draco’s. “Feel me. Yes, that’s right.”  
  
Draco clung desperately for long moments, while Harry went on whispering, nearly into his ear this time.  
  
“You’re  _not_  broken and you’re  _not_  useless. I know you resent your mother’s attempts to ‘meddle in your peace,’ but she does it because she can see that you’re  _not_  at peace. You should listen to her. You should listen to me. I think there are things you could do outside Malfoy Manor,  _if you wanted to_. But you should make the choice, rather than creeping listlessly about your house like a butterfly with broken wings.”  
  
“Please tell me I was not quite that pathetic,” Draco murmured, and felt Harry shiver as Draco’s breath raked along his skin. Draco paused, and breathed again. Harry gasped softly, the sound not one of fear but one of wonder.  
  
“Harry?” Draco prompted. “Was I that pathetic?”  
  
“No,” Harry said. His voice was still strong. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You act that way, so it was the comparison that occurred to me, but you aren’t pathetic.”  
  
“Good,” Draco said. He licked his lips, and knew Harry would feel the flicker of his tongue. They were so close at the moment that nothing could be hidden. That was the point. “Harry—“  
  
And Harry responded to the plea in his words without hesitation, without bothering to ask him what he pleaded for. “Draco. Take what you need.”  
  
*  
  
Harry could not remember feeling quite as brave as he did right now.  
  
He knew there would be consequences once they got out of the box. He knew that Draco might look at him with something different in his eyes if Harry really  _did_  give him what he needed. He knew that Ginny might feel a sense of betrayal—no, she probably would. And there would be the problem of explaining to anyone who hadn’t been here  _why_  Harry had offered this, instead of simply his words.  
  
Well, everyone else wasn’t here right now. And no matter what happened, Harry was going to face the consequences.  
  
The courage inside him filled his spine with stone, his stomach with steel. In spite of his words,  _he_  was the first one to move, threading his fingers through Draco’s hair and tugging lightly. Draco arched against him, the whisper-presence of his legs suddenly becoming solid, and Harry repeated the tug. He was smiling, he knew. He wondered what his smile would have looked like in a mirror. Delighted? Enigmatic?  
  
 _Not that you would know, seeing as you haven’t looked in a mirror for a decade._  
  
“Like that?” he whispered, and dropped his hand to rest on Draco’s shoulder again when the hands on  _his_  shoulders flexed open in delighted answer. “What else do you need?”  
  
Draco pressed closer to him, and then closer still. All right. A firm embrace, then. Harry started to shift so he would be holding Draco in his arms as tightly as he’d ever held his children.  
  
But Draco laid his open mouth against Harry’s cheek, and Harry realized he’d probably been mistaken. He lay still, curious, uncertain what would happen next, willing to face anything that did.  
  
Draco made a soft, hungry sound, and Harry felt a tongue lick at him. He nearly smiled. Draco was trying to get at the taste of salt in his skin, he thought, that other thing that the makers of the box had deprived him of.  
  
He went on talking then, because Draco had suddenly paused as if his terrors were about to overcome him again. Harry would take an elbow in the face if he started struggling again, now that they were this close.  
  
Besides, he might care for Draco’s sanity. Just a bit.  
  
“You’re not that far gone, or you would never have animated when I came to the house. And you  _did_. You snapped at me, you snarled at me, you wanted to talk about things I tried to hide from. That was what drew me into facing this, you know. Seeing how brave you were. You took Veritaserum, even though you had only my word that I wouldn’t ask questions I shouldn’t be asking, or use what I learned against you. And what you asked me for—“ Harry shook his head slightly, holding his breath for a moment when his hair again brushed Draco’s skin. “Friendship. I would have said that didn’t matter to you in school.”  
  
He caught his breath again as one of Draco’s hands left his shoulder and moved down his arm. Darts of ice seemed to shoot through him as it happened, melting at once and turning into warm shocks. But then he reminded himself that, sexually though his body might treat this, the most important thing was anchoring Draco to reality. If touching him would do that, Harry was more than willing to put up with it.  
  
“And I couldn’t be less than you were,” Harry continued. He thought he heard a faint snort, and smiled, though he knew Draco couldn’t see it in the darkness. “Yes, it was competition. I still don’t want you just to win unreservedly. I want us both to win together. And we do if we face the future, which includes the curse and trying to figure out how to solve it, I can’t face it less courageously than you do.”  
  
“Harry,” Draco said, a sigh so faint that Harry knew he would have missed it had it come while he was speaking.  
  
“Yes?” He splayed his hand flat on Draco’s back, fingers digging gently into his shirt. “Just ask me for what you need, Draco.”  
  
*  
  
Draco felt as though he had opened a door to a feast after starving for years.   
  
Yes, he’d had lovers, but none of them had been this open, this gentle, this willing to tend to what he wanted without squirming against him to get what they wanted. Harry acted as though Draco’s welfare were the only thing he cared about in the world.  
  
And now that he had part of Harry, Draco found he wanted more and more.  
  
“Stop talking for a moment,” he murmured, and then aligned their heads so that he could kiss Harry.  
  
Harry allowed it, and fearlessly opened his mouth so Draco could taste something other than the neutral, stale air. Draco took advantage of it at once, gasping when his tongue curled against Harry’s. The hands on his back scraped for a moment, as though Harry was surprised by the sudden onslaught of sensation, but Draco reveled even in that pain. The box still tended to press on his mind when he thought of it.  
  
He was full of Harry’s taste and feeling, and sight wasn’t possible, but he wanted sound and smell. He pressed closer, and pricked his ears. He heard silence, which he instantly endeavored to shove away from him, but also Harry’s soft breathing, calm, unafraid, steady.  
  
“Let me hear you,” he said, pulling his mouth away enough to ensure that Harry could make out the words. “Please.”  
  
Then he went back to the kiss, and this time Harry released the noises he’d been keeping in the back of his throat. Draco could not classify them all. Sounds of hunger, sounds of wonder, and sounds of delight were there, but not the desperation that Draco was used to feeling as part of a sexual encounter. It seemed Harry would be perfectly willing to lie there and kiss Draco for hours, as long as he needed it, without proceeding to anything more.  
  
Draco longed for more room. He wanted to push Harry flat to his back, climb on top of him, and show him just what  _more_  felt like. But their backs butted against the sides of the box whenever they moved; more room wasn’t possible.  
  
And if there had been something larger, perhaps Bellatrix would have—  
  
Sudden as a storm, Draco’s mind was snatched away, back to the moment when his aunt had fastened clamps to the skin under his ribs. She had enchanted them to the temperature of his body so that he couldn’t even concentrate on the sensation of cool metal to ground himself, but she had also enchanted them to send jolts of pain into him at the most unexpected moments. Draco tried crying and pleading and not reacting. Nothing helped. Nothing would get rid of the pain, though by the end he was promising Bellatrix anything if only she would.  
  
He cramped and quivered, and he could  _feel_  her breath on his neck, the exhalation of her soundless laughter, and see the smirk that had finally been on her face when she brought him back to the light—  
  
“You’re still strong, you know.”  
  
That voice was out of place here. Draco tried to push it away. The last thing he needed to have while caught in memories of Bellatrix was  _another_  hallucination, one that would layer itself under the first one and still be there when he woke.  
  
But the hallucination was stubborn. Hands rubbed his shoulders, dissipating the pain—the memory of the pain?—of the clamps, and the voice repeated, “You’re still strong. I can see why you hid in your house. Weakness is a terrible thing to face. But you  _have_  to face it, Draco. And I know that you have the courage to do so.”  
  
Draco decided in that moment that he didn’t care if the voice wasn’t real. It was certainly more pleasant than anything he was experiencing at the moment. He wanted to cling to it, follow it, and make it solidify.  
  
His hands groped blindly out, and made contact with a warm body. He gave a grateful little gasp, and then settled down to listen.  
  
*  
  
Harry had expected something like this to happen. Intense fear couldn’t simply be conquered; the person who suffered it might be distracted, but then it would spring out on him again. So when Draco suddenly started thrashing in his grip, and  _not_  in passion, Harry shifted again so that he was mostly embracing him and started calmly telling Draco about his own abilities to be a hero.  
  
“Your heroism isn’t exactly like mine. It isn’t exactly like Dumbledore’s, either, or Snape’s; theirs was the courage to live with the crimes they committed and try to atone for them as best they could. But you don’t have anything that large to atone for, Draco. The mistakes you made during the war were just mistakes. You’ve been treating yourself as if you made some grand effort and failed. I don’t think we’ve yet  _seen_  what you can do.  
  
“I know you have flashes of cleverness. Remember the badges you designed, the ones that said Cedric Diggory was the  _real_  Hogwarts champion and everyone should support him?” Harry could smile, his odd, amused appreciation of Draco’s cleverness mingling with the old emotions of hurt and grief, to create an even more peculiar blend. “I still had one in my trunk at the beginning of seventh year—well, what would have been seventh year, then. I stole one and hid it away. I didn’t want to tell  _you_ , of course, but I wished I knew how you did it. I stared at it and stared at it until the magic started to fade, and still I was no nearer figuring it out. And you did it intuitively. Practically overnight.”  
  
Draco’s body had ceased to struggle, but it trembled, though held in place, and that was hardly any better. Harry lowered his head, both so that his breath could brush the skin behind Draco’s ear and so that Draco could hear him better.  
  
“And how many  _real_  cowards would have kept after me like you did, or had the courage to play Seeker on a Slytherin team with the Weasley twins playing opposite you as Beaters? I don’t deny that you were afraid, and sometimes you were a regular sneaky, snaky, slimy Slytherin. But you weren’t helpless. You aren’t helpless now. You only think you are. What about the moments when you were up against me, or another obstacle, and kept on trying anyway? What about the moments when you failed, got detention, and yet were already planning revenge on me? None of those disappointments or setbacks was a blow to your self-confidence, Draco. Only the war was, and the year before it when you were trying to keep Voldemort from murdering your parents.”   
  
Draco’s trembling grew worse. Harry took a deep breath. He might be saying things that would increase the possibility of Draco falling into catatonia, but at least he knew the other wizard was listening.  
  
And, since they were imprisoned in the box with no chance of getting out  _anyway_ , Harry thought he might try some delicate surgery. This particular complex of wounds had festered in Draco’s soul for too long, that was clear, and had started to poison not only him but his relationships with other people. Now that he thought about it, Harry had hardly  _recognized_  him when he opened the door to Malfoy Manor, though the sudden fading had rather distracted him from realizing it at the time. Draco Malfoy without his haughty pride was like Harry without his stubbornness. It could be changed and refined as he was made into an adult, but never banished.  
  
And Draco  _hadn’t_  refined it. All he’d done was lock his failures into some dark room of his conscience where he brooded over them. In most of himself, he was still the same scared and insecure adolescent he’d always been.  
  
Harry was about to help Draco Malfoy grow up.  
  
*  
  
Draco hated and loved the voice. It hunted him into the corners of his thoughts when he tried to get a little peace. It insisted that he pay attention when he would have liked nothing more than to shut his brain down and vanish into fear. It dragged and tugged on his clothing like a Crup puppy or a kitten, though he knew the truths it wanted him to face were not nearly so benign.  
  
And, will he or nil he, he had to listen.  
  
“Do you know something about the year Voldemort tried to murder your parents?  
  
“You did  _the best you could_.  
  
“No, it wasn’t the right thing to do, and you came to regret it later. But you were  _sixteen years old_ , Draco. You were terrified out of your wits, just learning that something you’d anticipated for years wasn’t as glorious as you thought it would be, and that your father served a madman. He was in prison, and your mother had already done what she could to protect you. Why should you have been able to do everything perfectly when your parents, intelligent and experienced adult wizards of high political standing, couldn’t?  
  
“That’s what I think you’ve never understood. You can’t forgive yourself because of hindsight. But if you’d had the hindsight at the time, of  _course_  you would have acted differently. Abusing yourself because you never knew from the beginning is fruitless.  
  
“I’m not going to pretend that what you did that year was shining and spotless. You nearly killed my best friend. You did almost kill an innocent bystander. You put Madam Rosmerta under the Imperius Curse. You rejected the help Snape could have given you. And until the end you believed that you could kill Dumbledore, I think. But what you did wasn’t as horrible a failure as you seem to think it is, either.  
  
“You’re weak, Draco. But you’re not a weakling.”  
  
Draco’s mind rushed ahead to the time Bellatrix had imprisoned him in Malfoy Manor’s cellar, the times he’d tortured people under the Dark Lord’s command, how he’d hardly dared to meet anyone’s eyes—  
  
“You  _survived_ ,” said the voice, and the arms around him grew tighter and warmer and more present. “You didn’t crack, even when your aunt tried to make you do that.” There was a comforting hatred in his voice; since his mother almost never spoke of her dead sister, Draco had had no one in the past decade to properly loathe Bellatrix with. “You didn’t mouth off to the wrong person and get killed, which is what  _I_  would have done.” The voice sounded full of clear sight and regret for its own weakness. “What you’ve never been able to do is forgive yourself.”  
  
“I—“ Draco’s voice was a horrible croaking thing. He hated it, because it made him sound even more pathetic than he knew he was. “I tortured people.”  
  
“You were told to,” said the voice instantly, with so much certainty that Draco had to believe it, even though he wondered how the voice could know.  
  
“Obeying orders isn’t an excuse,” Draco mumbled, something he remembered reading in a book of philosophy.  
  
“When the person obeying orders is an adult, and sane, and has the option to refuse, no,” the voice countered calmly. “You might have chronologically been an adult, but you weren’t anywhere near Voldemort’s equal, and you  _weren’t_  grown up, as I think we’ve established. And I don’t think ‘terrified out of your mind’ really counts as sane.”  
  
“I—what happens if I let it go?”  
  
“You become a stronger person. A better person.”  
  
“But what if I f-forget and do it again?” Draco wanted to feel ashamed of himself for wailing like a child, but the answers to his questions were more important.  
  
“I don’t think you will,” the voice said. “I think it’s burned into your memory.” It grew sly. “And besides, if you forget, I’ll be around to remind you and bring you down a notch or two. But right now I want to build you up. It’s no fun kicking someone who’s down, you know.”  
  
“What if you leave?”  
  
“I won’t leave,” the voice said, and the arms tightened to the point that Draco thought he could feel his own ribs creaking. “I won’t ever leave you.” And it paused, and then it added, “And there’s no sense in feeling shame for breaking under torture, either. That’s what torture’s designed to do. That’s what happens.”  
  
“You never broke,” Draco accused, somehow sure that was right, though at the moment he couldn’t remember who the speaker was.  
  
“But, as you pointed out, I wasn’t ever in captivity for long periods of time, either.”  
  
Had he pointed that out? Draco couldn’t remember.  
  
“You’re not all right yet,” the voice admitted frankly. “And when you come back to yourself, you’ll probably be angry at me for making you face this. But you’re alive, and you’re sane—I won’t let you be insane—and even though you might not be a very good person right now, you’re nowhere near as evil as you think yourself. Your son loves you. Your mother loves you. And you love them. It takes an evil person, one like Voldemort, to be incapable of love.”  
  
“And what about you?”  
  
“Am I evil?” The voice sounded amused again.  
  
“Do you love me?”  
  
“Not yet.”  
  
“Do you like me?” Draco squeezed his eyes fiercely shut, despite knowing it wouldn’t stop what was coming.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
That was all it took. Draco wasn’t trapped in the darkness all by himself, calling futilely for someone to save him, as he’d been when his aunt tortured him. Someone had come to get him, and thought he was worth saving.  
  
He wasn’t alone.  
  
He began to weep, as the wound that had done no more than scab for ten years burst open at last, and let its sourness flow out, and began to heal.  
  
*  
  
Harry cradled Draco as closely as he could, not minding the dampness soaking into his face and hair and robes. That was just more proof that Draco was alive, after all. He kept his hands moving, and his voice murmuring constant soothing words, though it finally grew so hoarse he could barely talk—and Draco was probably sobbing too hard to hear him anyway.  
  
He knew what his words meant. He knew he’d given up a part of himself he couldn’t ever take back. And he’d promised to be with Draco, no matter what happened.  
  
He had never felt so calm.  
  
Draco eventually went to sleep, arms locked around Harry’s torso, a whimper of protest rising up his throat whenever Harry shifted. Harry closed his eyes, though of course that made no difference in the darkness, and listened to Draco’s quiet, steady breathing.  
  
When the lid of the box pulled back, Harry started to roll over, determined to put himself in the way of whatever pain Salazar’s Snakes might try to inflict on Draco.  
  
And then Hermione’s voice said, “Harry?” and he closed his eyes in sheer relief.   
  
Hermione and the rest had to lift them out of the box together, instead of one at a time. Draco’s arms and Harry’s arms were both clamped in place, and both refused to let go.


	16. Fused

Draco woke slowly. He blinked up at the ceiling above him for long moments before it occurred to him that he must be lying in St. Mungo’s. The cool colors of the walls, along with the impersonal sheets folded around his body, argued for it.  
  
He turned his head sharply, not aware what he was looking for until he saw Harry slumped in a chair next to him. His hand rested on the bed, as though he’d been clutching Draco’s fingers but lost hold of them sometime during the night. His head dangled back against the chair, that and his open mouth shaking slightly with his snores.  
  
And that was all it took for Draco to remember the finer details of their time in the box.  
  
He let his own head drop back on the pillow with a whoop, though he wasn’t sure if the noise was one of embarrassment or simple anger. He shut his eyes and thought about it, while next to him Harry dozed on. Draco almost would have welcomed the intrusion of a mediwitch with questions he didn’t feel ready to answer, because that would have meant he wouldn’t have to think about something life-changing, irrevocable.  
  
That’s what it was.  
  
He and Harry were joined now, fused together like two pieces of glass melted in a fire. Harry had seen Draco in an extremity of fear and hadn’t rejected him, which he would have been afraid of even Narcissa doing, had she ever seen him like that. Harry had looked into his face, and spoken calming words, and said he wouldn’t ever leave Draco.  
  
But such vows were easy to make within the confines of a box like that, with no one else to watch them or interfere, and with desperation ready to make Harry sacrifice himself recklessly so that Draco could survive. What was he going to do  _now_? Probably pull against their inevitable fusion, Draco thought grimly. Insist that he couldn’t keep his promises, that it was stupid to expect him to, and look at Draco with pity in his eyes.  
  
It was only to be expected. And it wasn’t as though Harry had got them into that situation in the first place; Marian and her knowledge of Draco’s fears and weaknesses had, along with Draco’s inability to conquer those fears and weaknesses. But surely he had the right to resent Harry’s stupidity? The way he would—  
  
“You know,” Harry said casually next to him, “I’m pretty sure the accused are allowed to defend themselves in any reasonable court of law. Not condemned and sewn up in sacks before they’ve ever said a word.”  
  
Draco turned around, gaping. Harry had sat up, and his green eyes had no film of sleep on them. They were, quite simply, determined.  
  
They were having their confrontation now, it seemed. And suddenly, Draco wasn’t so sure he  _wanted_  to have it—not when Harry would be the one attacking from a position of strength.  
  
“How were we rescued?” he asked, grasping after what he didn’t know to stay the inevitable.  
  
Harry’s hand slid down and locked about his, fingers sliding around fingers, fingertips ending up on his wrist.  
  
Draco closed his eyes and gave a convulsive shiver, wondering if, for the rest of their lives, the smallest touch from Harry would have the power to call up a desire for intimacy in his chest.  
  
*  
  
Harry had known what Draco’s reactions would be the moment he woke. He had spent too long despising his own timidity and burying it so deeply that the rest of the world would merely think him apathetic, not afraid. He would regret sharing it with Harry, but to escape self-contempt, he’d blame Harry instead.  
  
Harry didn’t intend to let him get away with that. They were out of the box, which made setting up a few barriers easier. But Harry was a man who kept his promises.  
  
Of course, they could begin the conversation in a harmless way if Draco wanted to. Harry wouldn’t leave the meat of it alone for long, but Draco didn’t need to know that yet.  
  
“Hermione traced the clues,” he said calmly. “She started tracking me down when I first got abducted doing Blood Reparations work, and when she realized how dangerous it would be, she put a locater charm on my wand. It doesn’t respond just because my wand’s been taken away, though; after all, I could have lost the wand in an accident, or put it down for the night. It starts calling her when someone causes me physical pain  _and_  removes the wand from my immediate vicinity.”  
  
“But—“ Draco began, and stopped, his confusion written all over his face.  
  
Harry nodded a little. “When that witch slapped me. Not hard physical pain, but the contact of human skin on mine in a hostile manner. That saves Hermione from getting called if I happen to fall accidentally, too.”  
  
Draco looked suitably impressed. Harry concealed a smile. He would be just as glad if Draco was a little awed of Hermione before they met again. Hermione had had plenty of questions for Harry about why he’d been entwined in Draco’s arms when she pulled them out of the box, and she hadn’t liked his answers.  
  
“I had no idea you could modify a locater spell that way,” Draco whispered.  
  
Harry shrugged. “Neither did Hermione, at first. It took her a few months of experimentation. At first she tried planting the charm directly on me, but it hurts too much, and it’s highly distracting to have it screaming into my ears in a situation where I might have to fight and escape. My wand makes a viable alternative.”  
  
“And why are we here?”  
  
 _We_ , Harry noted.  _Not I. That might make it easier. If he knows that we can’t be separated now in anything but one important way, he’s less likely to put up stupid arguments._  
  
“You suffered some minor bruising and abrasions from the box,” he said. “Plus, you weren’t quite in your right mind when Hermione lifted us out. The Healers wanted to make sure you hadn’t taken any permanent mental damage.”  
  
“What, you didn’t take the opportunity to brag to them how you’d saved my sanity?”  
  
Harry gazed calmly at him, until Draco turned his head and looked in the opposite direction. “I didn’t know I had, then,” he said. “And I was certainly concerned enough about you that St. Mungo’s sounded like a good idea.”  
  
Harry had to give Draco some credit; when the issue couldn’t be avoided any longer, he tried to face it like a man. A pity that he had a decade’s worth of denial working against him. “What are we going to do?” he whispered, and then his voice trailed off on the last words, as if softness would spare him the memories. His hand tightened convulsively in Harry’s.  
  
“Be friends,” Harry said instantly. “Closer friends than before. I’ve seen the most protected parts of you, now.” He met Draco’s eyes unflinchingly, even when Draco reared up to challenge him like some enraged werewolf. “And I’ll never reveal your secrets to anyone else,” Harry concluded firmly.  
  
“What if I don’t think that’s good enough?” Draco demanded. “What if I want to know your most protected secrets?”  
  
“You can have them,” said Harry, with a wisp of a smile. Draco stared at him as if he’d grown a tail.  
  
“But—“ he said, and then closed his eyes and lay back down. His cheeks had turned incredibly red, and he seemed to be straining to catch his breath.  
  
“I know,” Harry said, and he  _did_  know. The knowledge came to him the same way that knowledge of Draco’s soul had, when they lay in the box. Of course, he’d had some advantages in the learning that Draco couldn’t have realized, such as the mental connection with Voldemort during the war that let him observe Draco torturing people. But the means mattered less than the ends, and the ends were what Harry had in mind now. “You thought I was going to mock you and turn away from you. But I said I wouldn’t leave you. I meant it. Anything that you need of me and can have, within reason, I will give you.”  
  
“Within reason?” Draco murmured.  
  
Harry had to smile. Trust Draco to go immediately to the part of the bargain that might deny him something he desired.  
  
“I’m partially yours,” said Harry. “But parts of me belong to other people, too—to my children, to Ginny, to my friends. I can’t give myself to you so completely that I abandon them. For example, I’ll tell you anything about me that you want to know, but I wouldn’t sit idly by while you used that knowledge to their detriment. And I won’t sleep with you.”  
  
He knew Draco wouldn’t like that, just as Ginny hadn’t been happy about his staying in St. Mungo’s with Draco instead of coming home at once. Harry didn’t care. He had made his choice, and for once, it was one he’d taken on his own initiative. Hermione hadn’t bullied him into it. Ginny hadn’t talked him into it. Draco hadn’t laughed him into it.  
  
His own decisions, Harry was extremely stubborn about maintaining and pursuing. And he knew, none better, the experience of fighting the world all alone for something he believed was right.  
  
*  
  
Imaginings that Draco hadn’t even realized he entertained crashed to a halt at Harry’s words. He leaned forwards and stared along their joined hands at this infuriating, far-too-handsome man, who had the nerve to sit there smiling at Draco as if he hadn’t just said something unthinkable.  
  
“You seemed willing to sleep with me while we were in that box,” he spat.  
  
“That was in the box,” said Harry. “Some things do change outside it. Not the promises that I made you, but ‘not leaving you’ does not equate to ‘sleeping with you,’ and if you thought it did, then I’m sorry for your inadequate education.” He raised an eyebrow when Draco snarled and lunged towards him.  
  
Their joined hands stopped Draco, and not physically. Hurting Harry would hurt him, too, now. Damn the bastard for fitting himself into Draco’s life and making it impossible to think of existing without him, anyway.  
  
The knowledge frightened Draco more than anything had in ten years. But he had come through one bout of terror, and he was still alive and unbroken—perhaps even ready to build, unsteadily, on a new foundation. And since separation between their fused selves was impossible now, he would just have to live with what couldn’t be changed.  
  
“You kissed me,” he said.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You said that you liked me.”  
  
“Yes.” Harry grinned at him, a cunning expression that would have made Draco evaluate him more carefully as a serious opponent if he’d ever seen it in school. “I like Ron, too, and you don’t see me volunteering to sleep with him.”  
  
Draco shook his head. “You can’t ignore what’s there, Harry. The sexual element to your dreams and the visions in the mirrors.”  
  
Harry’s face was very calm and his voice was very flat. “I don’t plan on ignoring them. We’re going to work on the curse, remember? So that it will end, and the visions and the dreams with it. And then we can have a friendship that I hope will be deeper and more valuable to you than any hint of sexual tension.”  
  
Draco felt an odd rush of confidence as he realized he  _did_  see something Harry didn’t; he  _did_  have one piece of important knowledge in reserve, to give him an edge. He would be willing to accept a friendship as deep as this one looked like it would be, but he would be willing to die for a sexual relationship, a love affair, with the depth of that friendship behind it.  
  
And if Harry did not see the possibility for one to develop, when he’d sworn himself to Draco as strongly as he had, he was a fool.  
  
But opposition would just strengthen his present stubbornness. Draco would have bet half his fortune that Ginny Potter would do exactly that: wail at Harry about his actions with Draco and force him to defend himself. That would cause him to shake his head and keep plunging ahead, determined to prove that he could have his marriage  _and_  his deep and permanent friendship with Draco and suffer no ill effects from either.  
  
Meanwhile, Draco could wait. He wouldn’t need to encourage Harry; he wouldn’t need to speak up against Ginny or treat her like a rival. She wouldn’t be. Harry would be his, because by this point he couldn’t hold anything of himself back from Draco, and as time passed, that would only become more and more true.  
  
And it hadn’t escaped Draco’s notice, either, that Harry hadn’t spoken of holding anything back for himself, of the parts of Harry Potter that belonged to Harry Potter alone. _Well_. Draco would show him what could. He would offer privacy if Harry needed it, a listening ear when Harry’s bruised psyche required it, a willingness to shoulder the deepest and darkest secrets that Harry cared to shovel on him—because Harry would give him those things in return.   
  
By purely legitimate tactics,  _Gryffindor_  ones even, he would win Harry to him. They could both offer each other the same thing, what they most needed. And that wasn’t true of Harry’s relationship with the little Weasley.  
  
Gryffindor tactics just happened to coincide with Slytherin ones in this case. Harry had trapped himself in a situation where Draco had every reason to treat him well, because he had shown that he could treat Draco well. He would end up happy one day, and he would be the one to take the steps that got him there.  
  
Smiling, Draco leaned back against the pillows and said, “What will your wife say about what happened? Are you going to be completely honest with her?”  
  
*  
  
Harry eyed Draco suspiciously. Some decision had been made in that devious Slytherin brain, and he didn’t trust it, not for one instant.  
  
Except that he  _did_.  
  
He trusted Draco now, and it would take signed and sealed proof of treachery to destroy that bond between them. Harry could let the sudden change of subject go, because he was sure that, whatever Draco plotted, it would not hurt Harry or the people closest to him.  
  
Slightly unnerved, Harry cleared his throat, and nodded. “I’ve already talked to her once. She wanted me to come home. I told her I couldn’t do that while your condition remained uncertain; you  _were_  deeply traumatized when they pulled us out of that box, you know, and refused to let me go.” He told himself that Draco’s cheeks flushing with embarrassment was  _not_  cute, but something to grin in victory over. “Then she reminded me of the promise I’d made to her to go to therapy, and—“  
  
“ _What_?”  
  
Harry stared at Draco in wonder. The snarl had been one of utter outrage, and Draco’s hand had closed painfully on his. His other hand had risen as if he were going to cradle Harry’s face and examine it for signs of wounds.  
  
 _He’s being protective. Even though he’s the one who was so much in trouble in that box, even though he’s the one who should be leaning on my strength instead of inviting me to lean on his._  
  
Harry swallowed. He had the first dim glimpses, then, of the fact that he might get himself in deep, deep trouble if he wasn’t careful. Such intense tenderness was seductive.  
  
But he had already known that he might get himself in trouble by caring for Draco Malfoy. He had chosen to do it anyway. And he still would. If he walked a tightrope between options of pain, so what? It was his choice.  
  
“She wants me to go to therapy for, well, the dreams.” Harry shrugged. “She’s been much more aware of them all along than I thought she was. I told you that.”  
  
Draco gave a tight nod. “And did you explain to her that this was a curse, and that curses are not normally subject to  _therapy_?” He said that word as if it were an obscene one involving dragons defecating.  
  
“I tried. But she doesn’t know why I react so physically to the dreams, and so she wants to know if I’m bisexual, have an unacknowledged longing for you and not other men, or what. Once she knows, then she feels she can calm down.”  
  
“And you’re going to fulfill her insanity?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“In the name of—“ Draco shut his eyes as if they’d already been arguing for hours about the same subject and he was weary. He probably was, Harry thought, but not of the argument. He’d been through an intense and draining experience in that box, after all. “Harry,” he breathed at last. “If you’re not perfectly straight, that’s  _fine_ , and it’s something you should be allowed to come to terms with on your own.”  
  
 _And something you’d be happy to help me with?_  
  
But it wasn’t fair for Harry to say that aloud, not when he had already made the decision to keep any sexual element out of his relationship with Draco. “Maybe,” he said. “She still wants to know. She swears that once she does, she’ll be happier and able to forget about most of her worries concerning our—compatibility, let’s call it. It’s a small sacrifice which I’m willing to make for her.”  
  
Draco’s free hand moved forwards and landed on his cheek. Harry closed his eyes in spite of himself, and turned his head to nuzzle into the palm. The fingers closed on his jaw, in a gentle parody of the way they’d clutched him in the darkness.  
  
Like the flesh memory of a Snitch, Harry felt those hands again, and the tongue curling sensually in his mouth, and heard Draco’s whispered request to let the sounds he’d been keeping silent out—  
  
And Harry faced the memory, and raised a calm eyebrow at it, and put it away. He’d  _chosen_. He’d chosen to remain faithful to his wife, and if that had painful consequences, well, so what? He was so experienced at living with pain that he barely noticed it anymore. And a pure friendship with Draco should be enough to make up for whatever he  _thought_  he’d be losing by ignoring the kiss.  
  
“I just wonder,” Draco whispered, “what she’s sacrificed for you.”  
  
Startled, Harry opened his eyes. “Plenty,” he said. “Some parts of her career, since she has to stay at home with the children when the Blood Reparations Department is busy. Some of her independence and privacy, just like with all married couples. And she knows she can’t win all our battles.” Harry grinned, memories of the past popping up in his mind like mushrooms. “In fact, she loses most of them.”  
  
Draco gave a mutter that sounded remarkably like, “I’m happy to hear that,” but which was so low that Harry could ignore it.   
  
“And if she objects to our friendship?” he asked.   
  
“I’ll tell her to shove it,” Harry replied cheerfully.  
  
Draco’s hand fell away from his face, but the one holding Harry’s tightened on his wrist. The expression in his eyes was of such delighted surprise that Harry laughed.  
  
 _God, done right, this will become something even better than what I can share with Ron—because Ron never looks at me like I’m the most important person in the world._  
  
Again Harry felt a queasy presentiment of danger. Again, he shoved it away. Things would only become dangerous if he was less than vigilant about keeping his self-control. And he could keep his self-control. If he was ever tempted, he only had to remind himself how much Ginny and the children would be hurt by his straying. That was enough to keep his dick firmly in his pants.  
  
And Draco would be content with what Harry could offer him. Harry was sure of it. After all, why would he  _want_  someone in his bed who wasn’t even sure he was bisexual? Draco had better taste than that.  
  
Someone coughed discreetly at the door. Harry turned his head, even as Draco’s cheeks suddenly caught fire. Hermione stood there, staring at them with narrowed eyes.  
  
Harry stared back, not the least embarrassed. He hadn’t hidden anything from her, and he wouldn’t hide anything from Ginny, and he wouldn’t hide anything from Draco. Living openly might be hard as hell, but Harry liked to think he’d grown up enough in the last decade to manage it.  
  
“Ginny’s been asking for you, Harry,” said Hermione, with a gentle bite to her voice. “And the Healers have said Malfoy’s can go home tomorrow.” She glanced directly at Draco for a moment, but looked away, as if he’d been burned or scarred in a fire. “He’ll have protection, of course, since we still don’t know how or why Salazar’s Snakes took you, and they all fled before I arrived at their hideout.”  
  
“Draco’s in the room, Hermione,” said Harry, tightening his grip on Draco’s hand for a moment. “You can speak directly to him when it’s something involving him.”  
  
“Harry,” Hermione said. “Go home.”  
  
Harry snorted, but he didn’t see the point in putting off the confrontation with Ginny, and he didn’t think Draco desperately needed him right now. From the way he was surveying Hermione with narrowed eyes, half-grateful and half-sarcastic, Harry thought he could draw on his own reserves of strength to deal with her.  
  
“I’ll see you soon,” he said, with a nod to Draco, and gently parted their hands, ignoring the way his own skin immediately felt cold. He paced out of the room, Hermione catching up with him in moments.  
  
She put a hand on his arm in the corridor. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asked.  
  
Harry considered her coolly. Yes, the last ten years had hardened her, to the point that she sometimes seemed almost unconnected with the young witch he’d known. But then he would see her with Ron or her children, and he remembered.  
  
Besides, he reminded himself, it was not as though she had any reason to trust Draco. She hadn’t been in the box.  
  
He smiled at her, which seemed to confuse her, and patted her hand. “Yes,” he said. “And it will be very hard, but I’m sure it’s worth it.”  
  
He left her staring after him, and went to talk to his wife, feeling as if he were riding to war. Perhaps he shouldn’t feel that way, but it was reality.  
  
*  
  
Draco licked his lips, and easily ignored the two Blood Reparations wizards who filed awkwardly into the room and seemed unsure whether to stare at him or talk loudly between themselves. They settled for the latter, but Draco could drown their voices in silence just by remembering Harry’s words.  
  
 _Draco’s in the room, Hermione.  
  
He defended me to his friends. He’ll defend me to his wife. I can give him absolute faith, and he’ll only do trustworthy things with it._  
  
Draco did wish he’d managed to persuade Harry against going to this therapy Ginny wanted, but Harry did not do well with pushing. He would have to wait for that, wait until Harry became more and more his, completely instead of only in part.  
  
 _But some things are worth waiting for._


	17. Harry's War

“You’re home very late.”  
  
Harry paused in hanging up his cloak on the hook next to the door, then smiled to himself. He had thought Ginny would attack first, desperately seeking to establish her own ground. If she could put him on the defensive from the beginning, after all, she believed that she would stand a better chance of winning.  
  
 _She doesn’t understand yet that nothing she can say will grant her a victory—at least not in the matter of my spending time with Draco_. Harry moved further into the library, where she sat. It  _was_  late, and Harry could hear the subdued breathing of the children from down the corridor, a talent developed from the time when Al’s sleep had been so deep that Harry had feared that he might stop breathing at any moment. Ginny sat with her elbows on the table in front of her, her hands clasping the sides of her head and acting with her hair to hide her face.  
  
“I am,” he said. “I won’t say that I’m sorry for staying with Draco at the hospital, but I am sorry that it meant I couldn’t come home right away.”  
  
Ginny boiled to her feet. Since she’d been flying regularly with the Holyhead Harpies, she’d gained a lithe grace that Harry thought even he couldn’t have surpassed during the days when he’d been Gryffindor Seeker. She had just washed her hair, he thought, because it settled in a heavy mat across her back instead of swirling around her. There was only one soft light in the library, Ginny’s wand glowing with a  _Lumos_  charm, and so he couldn’t see her very well.  
  
“And that’s all the apology I get, is it?” she hissed at him.  
  
Harry watched her. Let her blow the majority of her anger out, and then he would attempt to explain. He had made his choice for rational reasons, and he would get nowhere if he tried to explain irrationally.  
  
“I very nearly had to tell our children that their father was never coming home again,” Ginny said, stalking forwards. Her wavering shadow stretched long behind her in the light of the spell, like the shadow of a stalking tiger. “And why? Because you couldn’t keep away from Diagon Alley, where you went on nothing but a  _Malfoy’s_  say-so!   
  
“You’ve spent more and more time away from our family—away from the children, away from  _me_ —just because Malfoy wants you to. Teddy hardly sees you anymore. You haven’t completed a mission for the Blood Reparations Department in weeks. Tell me, Harry, is it  _fair_ , is it  _right_ , that we should be shuffled aside for the sake of your—your  _infatuation_  with Malfoy?”  
  
Harry was sorely tempted to say something then. He knew that the charge of neglecting his children and Teddy had some truth to it. But he remained still, and let Ginny come close enough that he could feel the restless heat of her body.  
  
“I don’t understand it,” Ginny whispered, and her voice cracked down the middle. “ _Ten years_  you’ve been content to ignore this curse you live with, and it was easy enough to ignore, too, since we didn’t have mirrors and we could always pretend the dreams didn’t exist. And  _now_  you want to learn the truth of it? What’s so special about Malfoy, that he should be able to get you to do something that I never could?”  
  
Harry met her eyes steadily, feeling compassion unfold in him. No wonder her anger was so vicious. There wasn’t just sexual jealousy here, but envy on a whole other level. Ginny understood, just like he did and just like Draco did, what was important.  
  
He could have made some joke about how Draco had been able to get him to attack with fists and hexes flying, too, and how she could never have done that. But Ginny’s eyes told him that right now wasn’t the time for humor.  
  
“I don’t object to you trying to solve this murder case. I know you have no choice, since it was a life-debt, and that of course you don’t want anyone, even Malfoy, to die.” Ginny had folded her arms around herself as if she were cold. “But I object to you giving your entire life over to him. I want you  _back_ , Harry. Where you insist on drifting right now is somewhere none of us can follow. I won’t have it.”  
  
There was a terrible, raw fear underlying her words, and Harry couldn’t resist the impulse any longer. He reached out and gathered her into his arms.   
  
Ginny didn’t struggle, but she stiffened further, not falling soft and sweet and pliant either. Harry would have been disappointed if she had. It would have been a sign that she was pushing her anger back into a small box, and this wasn’t an emotion that could be willed to disappear that way. It was important that he and Ginny talk about what lay between them—it would be important in every conversation they had from now on—and Harry was relieved that she could at least speak it clearly.  
  
“You’ll have me,” he whispered. “You’ll always have me.”  
  
Ginny sucked in a surprised breath.  
  
“Just not all of me,” Harry added quietly.  
  
She tugged, then, and Harry let her retreat to the edge of the loosest circle of his arms. She didn’t show any urge to go further than that, instead staring at him narrow-eyed. “What does  _that_  mean?”  
  
“You don’t have all of me now, Ginny,” Harry said. He normally would have said something along the lines of, “Isn’t it  _obvious_?” but this wasn’t an ordinary row. Or, rather, this calmness of mind was his new “normal”—necessary if he was to have everything in his life that he wanted to have, and if he were to play the role towards everyone that he needed to play. “Parts of me belong to James and Al and Lily. And Ron and Hermione, of course. And the rest of your family. And Teddy and Andromeda—“  
  
“But that’s  _different_ ,” Ginny said fervently. “Of course I want you to love our children! And I trust Ron and Hermione and my family. And Teddy’s your godson, of course you should love him.”  
  
Harry blinked. He had not expected to see her arriving at this conclusion, or at least, not quite this fast.  
  
“I don’t love Draco in the way you’re thinking of,” he said.  
  
Ginny frowned at him.  
  
“I will never love him like I love you,” Harry said precisely.  _Even if things greatly changed between Draco and me, that would remain true_. “And certainly he’s not a child, to be loved like  _that_. The closest it would come is to the bond I share with Ron and Hermione.”  
  
“And I don’t want you to have that,” Ginny replied immediately. “I don’t  _trust_  him, Harry. What in the world does he  _want_  with you? What can you offer him that he’s grasping after you like this?”  
  
Hurt caught hold of him in the corners of the eyes and at the roots of his hair. Harry took a rough breath and told the emotion to go hang. Yes, it had sounded as though Ginny thought he couldn’t offer anyone any good in and of himself, but she hadn’t meant it that way. Draco was the one she thought incapable of simple friendship.  
  
That was another thing he would have to get used to: controlling the instant reaction to careless words and looking behind them for what people really meant.  
  
It wasn’t easy. But he was the one who had chosen this path. He would remind himself of that whenever he faltered.  
  
“I can choose my own friendships,” he told her with all the restraint he could muster. “As for what I can offer him—well. I kept him sane in the box we were trapped in. I know that Hermione must have told you about the box.”  
  
“She did.” Ginny had bowed her head so that he couldn’t see her eyes now. Harry debated putting a hand beneath her chin and lifting her face again, but decided that would go too far.  
  
“I kept him sane there,” he repeated softly. “He’s terrified of dark and small spaces, thanks to an experience in the war. I talked to him, and explained how I saw him, and how I think he can overcome the weakness that’s always plagued him and become someone grander and greater.”  
  
“You hinted that talking to him wasn’t all you did,” Ginny whispered accusingly.  
  
“No,” said Harry. “He touched me. Kissed me—“   
  
Ginny whirled away from him and stood still for a moment before her shoulders heaved once. Then she crossed the room in one step, snatched up her wand, and turned it on him.   
  
Harry lifted his own wand to counter her Stinging Hex, then avoided the Tripping Jinx and said to her, “I didn’t betray our marriage vows, Ginny.”  
  
“You  _did_ —“  
  
“No,” Harry said. “Remember the bonding we chose? I have to touch someone else with sexual intent, with the intention to betray you, before the vows react. And then they plague the person with itching that lasts for hours. I would still  _have_  it if I wanted to make love to Draco and touched him that way. I didn’t. I touched him and let him touch me because  _that’s what he needed_.”  
  
Ginny swallowed, and her wand wavered, though it didn’t drop. Harry suspected she  _had_  forgotten that clause of their bonding. There were several different kinds of marriage, from the completely open kind that some couples who might leave each other had, to the one Harry suspected Draco had, which simply forbade one partner to bring his or her lovers home to a shared house.  
  
He and Ginny had chosen a strict bonding, which punished errant actions but not desires; after all, as Ginny had whispered to him, laughing, the night before they wed, it was not as though she deserved punishment for sometimes looking at Dean Thomas with longing, and why should she worry he’d leave her for a beautiful woman he saw on the street? No human could control his or her heart. Actually  _sleeping_  with someone was never an accident, but the wanting might be.  
  
Neither of them had ever thought that there was someone else they might want to spend the rest of their lives with. It would have been natural for Ginny to forget about the consequences of betrayal. When were they going to come up?  
  
“I didn’t betray you,” Harry repeated calmly. “I have a friendship with Draco, and nothing more. I won’t let you dictate the content of my friendships, any more than I try to tell you that you can’t drink an extra butterbeer with Glynnis instead of coming home right away after practices. But you’re my wife, Ginny. I won’t forget that, and the part of me that you own will always belong to you.”  
  
Ginny shut her eyes. And then her wand dropped to the floor altogether as she rushed forwards to embrace him. Harry barely got his own wand out of the way in time.  
  
He held her as she cried, and whispered that she wouldn’t have suspected anything except that Harry seemed so  _happy_  when he was with Draco, and he seemed to have adapted so instantly to him, given their years-long hatred in Hogwarts. Then it was Harry’s turn to explain his own compassion for Draco, trapped in his home with a wife who hated him—and, lately, a wife who vanished and seemed to have betrayed sensitive information about him to his enemies—and his strong reactions. They had both changed in ten years, and that was responsible for much more of the transformation than anything else. He pitied Draco and admired what he might become, but he didn’t love him.  
  
The confession he had made to Draco in the box came back to him.  
  
 _Yet._  
  
And the curl of Draco’s tongue in his mouth lingered there like a taste, even now.  
  
But Harry refused to feel guilt over that. This was the exact reason that he and Ginny hadn’t chosen a set of marriage vows which punished desire. Yes, he could feel a tingle like sizzling fireflies heating his blood when he thought about Draco touching him.   
  
But so long as he never made his dreams real, what he felt didn’t matter.  
  
Ginny pulled back from his embrace at last, and looked at him with a serious expression on her face. “And you’ll go to therapy?”  
  
“I will,” Harry promised.   
  
 _Such a small sacrifice, to make her happy. Compared to what I did for Draco in the box, it’s really nothing at all._  
  
*  
  
Harry had seemed cautious when Draco asked him to bring both his elder children the next time he visited, but he’d agreed. Now Draco stood with Scorpius in his arms just back from the front doors—simple caution urged him not to step onto the stoop, where his enemies might yet take a shot at him—and watched in amusement as Harry herded his sons up the path towards Malfoy Manor.  
  
Al was walking, but he leaned frequently against his father’s legs, seeming to tire easily. The red-haired boy who must be James raced ahead, chased one of the peacocks—which fled with shattered dignity—and then came back to his father and shouted something about apple trees and a  _pool_  he could see in the back and did Daddy see that  _bird_?  
  
Abruptly, James turned away from Harry and ran full-tilt towards him. Draco could feel Scorpius tense up in his arms, but he held his boy safely above James, and Scorpius relaxed again.  
  
James jerked to a stop and stared up at him with frank appraisal. He had hazel eyes. Draco, staring back, couldn’t remember whether they were actually the same color as Ginny Potter’s or not. Of course, it wasn’t as though he’d spent a lot of time staring at Ginny Potter in school.  
  
He knew exactly what color Harry’s eyes were, though it was hard to describe them because their green didn’t have its equal on earth.  
  
He was brought back to the present when James announced, “You’re too small to be a dad.”  
  
Draco blinked. That was certainly a new one. “And how many dads do you know?” he asked. Scorpius cuddled closer to him at the sound of his voice and blinked at James, too.  
  
“Dad and Uncle Ron and Uncle Bill and Grandpa and Uncle Percy,” said James instantly. “And they’re all  _big_. You’re not. You’re not a dad.” The boy looked mightily pleased by his own deductive reasoning.  
  
Draco nodded gravely, coughing to hide his amusement.  
  
“He’s  _my_  dad,” said Scorpius, frowning.  
  
“Yeah, but you’re not a real kid,” said James, waving his hand.  
  
Scorpius’s brow puckered in the way it did when he was about to fuss. Luckily, Harry had arrived with Al just then—perhaps hurried on by the sight of Draco facing James without reinforcements—and Scorpius’s attention immediately switched to his new friend. He stretched out his hand, and Al caught it. An instant later, both boys were beaming. James folded his arms and pouted.  
  
 _If only it were that easy with their father_ , Draco thought with a momentary touch of regret, but Harry’s large, sweet smile on seeing him made him remember why it would be worth the wait. He did manage to skim his hand over Harry’s arm as he reached out to pat James’s head, and Harry shifted a bit, then nodded, as though he recognized that as something Draco needed to do.  
  
 _Something you need, too_ , Draco thought, staring hard at Harry, then looked at James, who had ducked away from him with an indignant splutter. “Have you ever chased a real Snitch?” he asked.  
  
James’s face instantly changed to interest. “No! You don’t have one. Not even  _Dad_  has one!”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes, but he nodded subtle permission, so Draco swung Scorpius to his shoulder and gestured inside the house. “I do,” he said. “I’ll let you chase it  _if_  you promise to mind my mother.”  
  
“I’ll mind,” said James, with the certainty of a child giving a promise he intended to break and had broken many times in the past. Draco hid a smile. Narcissa would keep track of him, and of Al and Scorpius as they played together, without trouble. She had lit up around the children last time, perhaps because they would actually do what she ordered them to do.  
  
And she had been so much lighter and more cheerful in the last days, starting from the time Draco kissed her and told her that he was starting to overcome the nightmares Bellatrix had left him with. His coming back to life had brought her along with him. Draco had only thought she was alive before. Now, she bustled with new plans and projects, and he could even listen to them and argue back without wanting to throw something.  
  
 _And it’s all due to Harry._  
  
Draco watched him covetously out of the corners of his eyes as they went to fetch the miniature Snitch for James and then to place the children in Narcissa’s care, storing up every glimpse he could catch of green eyes widening or the dark head turning or the lean body moving, to recall when Harry wasn’t there. On such things he would live until the moment that he could convince Harry that what he needed was just as important as what his wife needed.   
  
He would have a long struggle against Harry’s self-sacrificing nature, he knew.  
  
He was prepared for the struggle.  
  
He  _could_  be stronger than he was. Harry showed him the way, and he’d be there to help as Draco grew in strength, but he’d left the actual path open for Draco to discover.   
  
That was as it should be. Draco had done enough moping during the last years, and had spent enough time feeling that someone should rescue him. He’d like to start having a share in the rescuing.  
  
It began, necessarily, with dry research. Draco had found what he thought were references to mirror magic, and visions seen in mirrors, in two of the books his father had hidden from the Aurors. But the bits of mirror lore were scattered among spells that the books’ author had written down simply to prove his skills at gathering arcane knowledge. He and Harry would have to read them all the way through and then sift out the useful bits from the rubbish when they were done.  
  
Even that task was more pleasant than Draco thought it would be. He and Harry worked side by side at the same table. Harry had started to take the chair across from him, but Draco had shaken his head and pointed to the seat already arranged in front of the second enormous and dusty book,  _Travels Through Ancient Wisdom_.  
  
Harry had raised an eyebrow, but complied.  
  
And so they read with their shoulders brushing, and sometimes their arms or wrists when Harry reached out to turn a page. Occasionally, Harry murmured a question in an abstracted tone, and Draco did his best to answer it. Their quills scratched over the parchment in front of them, and though they moved at different paces and at different times, Draco could detect no difference in their sounds when he listened.  
  
He and Harry were  _matched._  
  
He could feel body warmth on his side, if that was what he needed, just by bending a little. And once when he couldn’t find a useful bit of information in ten densely-argued pages and had started to grind his teeth, Harry’s hand settled gently over his shoulder and began to massage. Draco relaxed at once, even tipping his head to the side so that his brow, marked with the new scar, brushed Harry’s hair. Harry didn’t pause or tense, but kept up the soothing strokes.  
  
Harry was comfortable with touching him.  
  
Relaxed, cheered, and made secure by Harry’s presence, Draco got through much more work than he had thought he would. And Harry filled nearly as many pages of parchment with notes.   
  
It was a pleasure Draco hadn’t known since the old days when he sometimes helped Professor Snape brew potions: two minds swooping along the same track, hunting the same goal, with absolute harmony.   
  
It was the first of many pleasures that he looked forwards to sharing with Harry.  
  
*  
  
“Welcome, Mr. Potter. Please sit down.”  
  
One thing Harry liked about Michael Eaglethorpe at once: other than the obligatory flick of his eyes to the scar on Harry’s forehead, he didn’t seem overly impressed or awed to be treating the Savior of the Wizarding World. He nodded Harry towards a chair in front of his desk, which Harry gladly took. It was old, worn green leather, comfortable. The office itself was comfortable, in fact, with a few restrained landscape paintings. If Eaglethorpe had degrees or awards, he seemed to take care not to intimidate ordinary visitors to his office with them.  
  
“I was trained in a mixture of Muggle and Mind-Healer methods,” he said, when Harry asked. “I’d have to forever be hiding half my qualifications from half my patients.”  
  
He smiled when he said it. He was an older man, perhaps in his late forties, with his own long scar that trailed across his scalp and made the graying black hair flare white along it. He was heavyset, and moved like Arthur Weasley after a good meal. His eyes were calm and gray, and he sat back behind the desk to consider Harry with them trained steadily on his face.  
  
“I want to have a simple conversation with you,” he began. “You came here to figure out why you’re having dreams about another man?”  
  
“I know  _why_ ,” Harry said. “It’s part of a curse that’s attacked both of us. But I’ve reacted—well, physically—to them.” He could feel his face heating up, but he forged ahead. “And my wife suggested I come here, so that I could learn why.”  
  
Eaglethorpe nodded slowly. “Then it wasn’t your own decision to come here?”  
  
“Not really, no.” Harry supposed that could be construed as insulting, but he didn’t want to hide anything from this man, either. Honesty was his new mantra, no matter how exhausting it had been over the past few days, explaining to Ginny why he took James as well as Al along to visit Malfoy Manor.  
  
Come to think of it, he’d relaxed most when he was with Draco.  
  
Harry shrugged to himself.  _So I have different methods of relating to them. I knew that already._  
  
“Hm.” Eaglethorpe cocked his head. “Then let’s start with simple questions. Have you ever considered yourself gay?”  
  
“No.” Harry had seen no reason to. After all, he’d successfully ignored the dreams about Draco for years, and he had a wife and three children ready to testify to the fact that he had no problems desiring women.  
  
“Have you ever had dreams about other men?”  
  
Harry half-smirked, wondering what Eaglethorpe would make of his visions of Voldemort. “Not sexual ones.”  
  
“Can you describe the content of a typical dream about Mr. Malfoy for me?”  
  
His face nearly hurt with how hot it flushed, as if he had sunburn, but Harry drew his breath and did as asked. He summarized the dream he’d had a few nights before he and Draco were captured, the one he had woken from so hard that he would have come if he moved, and then went back over it in more detail at Eaglethorpe’s insistence. His frown became deeper and deeper as Harry continued.  
  
“I’ve never heard of a curse that operated this way,” he admitted when Harry finally finished.  
  
“Neither have we,” Harry said.  
  
“We?”  
  
“Malfoy and I.”  
  
Eaglethorpe looked at him thoughtfully. “You don’t think it would be a good idea to curtail your association with Mr. Malfoy while you’re trying to divine your sexual orientation?”  
  
“No,” said Harry.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because Draco needs the contact with me,” Harry said, his voice deepening. The mere thought of abandoning Draco because  _Harry_  might have some ridiculous sexual issue—ridiculous because he’d never sleep with someone but Ginny anyway—made him want to attack the person suggesting it. “And I’m his  _friend_. And whatever I decide about my orientation is for the comfort of my wife. It’s for her that I’m coming to these therapy sessions. It won’t affect the way I interact with Draco.”  
  
Never mind that it had been easy to see Draco at Malfoy Manor the other day with his head thrown back in passion, courtesy of a dream Harry had had the night before he visited. This time, he’d been the one fucking Draco into the bed, desperately whispering words of love and promising never to leave.   
  
But he had learned some self-control. He wouldn’t snatch at what hung in front of him like a child at a sweet. He might spend a lot of time around boys three and two years old, but he was not them. It was only childish people who betrayed their marriage vows.  
  
 _Except for Draco._  
  
Yes, but his situation had been different, Harry argued with himself. He could not find it in himself to condemn Draco for that, after meeting Marian. He could still condemn him for other things—like spending ten years drifting helplessly through life—but that was an area of Draco’s life he had no right to judge, private business, between him and his wife.  
  
“I see.” Eaglethorpe appeared more disturbed than before, though Harry didn’t know why. He’d only told the truth. “Well, your hour is up for now, Mr. Potter. I’ll see you again in a week.”  
  
Harry stood, nodded, managed a smile, and left.  
  
He strode along the corridors that would lead him to the lift—Eaglethorpe worked out of a building in the middle of Muggle London—and then forced himself to halt and take a deep breath.   
  
This was going to be the hardest part of the war he was fighting to be honest and calm and rational, he thought, the part where he fought  _himself_. He only had to see an expression of hurt on Ginny’s and Draco’s faces to know what it would cost if he turned his back on either one of them. But when he was alone, he was tempted to give in to his rage or sink into a morass of self-pity.  
  
He could overcome it. He could avoid the temptation to yell or scream or tell people they didn’t understand, since it was his responsibility to  _tell_  them if they didn’t understand.  
  
He pushed the button to call the lift, and leaned on the wall, his arms folded and his head tilted back.  
  
He’d win. It would just take some time, that was all.


	18. Flashpoint

“There’s more information on Salazar’s Snakes here than we’ve ever been able to gather before,” said Hermione briskly, pushing the sheaf of parchment across the library table to Harry. “And even then, it’s not much.”  
  
It was Harry’s usual day to take charge of Teddy, but he was sick with a slight cold this morning, and Andromeda had decided to keep him at home. Harry wondered idly how she’d keep him in his  _bed_. Perhaps by telling him that if he got sick often enough, he wouldn’t be able to attend Hogwarts next autumn. Hogwarts was the source of most of Teddy’s hope  _and_  anxiety  
  
“Why not?” he said, when Hermione coughed to remind him that there was a conversation in front of him and he was expected to pay attention to it. He checked the monitoring spells on his children—light loops of magic on his wrist that would pull taut when his intervention was needed—and found Lily still peacefully sleeping in her cot, and James and Al, in the corridor, still playing at wizards’ duel with a pair of sticks that Harry had found in the yard and Transfigured into play wands. A solemn warning that he would take them away the moment James hit his brother with the stick had so far prevented any incidents.  
  
“Because they’re better at covering their tracks than we suspected,” said Hermione in a tone of disgust, shoving her hair out of her eyes. “I think they must put all their efforts into hiding. Certainly their actual attempt at torturing you didn’t work that well.”  
  
“It would have, if their information was as complete as they thought it was,” Harry said quietly. A drawing of a typical Salazar’s Snake, in green mask and black cloak, stared up at him. He shook his head and shoved it aside, searching for more relevant information. “Or if they captured Draco alone.”  
  
“Yes,” said Hermione, plainly not interested in thinking about what Draco’s fate would have been if Harry wasn’t there. “But, Harry, the whole thing is  _odd_. As you pointed out, they received a warning that you were in Diagon Alley, but why did they wait three whole hours to capture you? And then they seized a lucky chance—“  
  
“Or unlucky—“  
  
“Yes, or unlucky,” said Hermione, with a little roll of her eyes to say that she didn’t care much about what name he chose to use, “when they might have waited all day and never found it. It’s just  _odd_. What were they waiting for?”  
  
“What  _did_  you learn?”  
  
“There was a letter,” said Hermione, becoming animated again as she dived through the paper. Harry checked the monitoring spells; the faint whisper of a nightmare had passed through Lily’s head, since she was breathing a little harder than usual, and Al and James were arguing about what exactly a Body-Bind did. “We got a copy of it before it dissolved, luckily.”  
  
Harry stared at her. “ _Dissolved_?”  
  
“Yes.” Hermione gave him an even look as she handed the copy over. “That was another odd thing. There were sophisticated charms protecting that letter, even though it’s simple. And when we tried to penetrate them and find out who the real writer was, the ink just turned watery and ran off the paper.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what to make of it. They have high-level magic backing them—the glamours on their hideout were impressive—but then they act stupid about it.”  
  
“The Death Eaters were like that, too,” Harry reminded her absently as he read the letter. The entire thing consisted of two lines, and a strange signature.  
  
 _To the ones who would help us protect our world, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are now in Diagon Alley, and should remain there for some time.  
  
The Chaired Lady._  
  
“Yes,” Hermione said again, “but that was a function of their leader, and Voldemort’s insane ambitions. If we could figure out who the leader of Salazar’s Snakes was, we’d know a lot more, of course. But at the moment, I’d settle for figuring out what they  _want_.”  
  
Harry traced the lines of the copied letter with one finger. Something besides the signature was bothering him. Perhaps it would come to him, as the revelation about the scar on Draco’s forehead had, if he was just quiet and let his mind stew for a moment. “I suppose you never learned how they obtained my signature?”  
  
He looked up in time to see Hermione smirk a bit. “Actually, we did,” she said. “We  _did_  discover a stock of Polyjuice Potion in the house—“  
  
“You couldn’t learn who owned the house?” Harry asked, distracted by that sudden passing thought. “That ought to lead us straight to the Snakes’ backer.”  
  
Hermione gave him a disgusted look. “Ten years in the Blood Reparations Department, and you  _still_  haven’t learned how many pure-bloods own houses under assumed names and through a tangle of paperwork accounts that all lead back to each other?”  
  
Harry shrugged. The thought in his mind struggled and bubbled like a baby bird trying to knock through its shell. Lily stirred and mumbled, but fell asleep before Harry could rise from the chair. Al was now arguing that he had blocked James’s latest attempt at a Body-Bind with a Shield Charm, and that he had  _so_  done it. Harry drew back from the monitoring spells a bit so that he could avoid the inevitable chorus of, “Did not!” “Did so!” that followed. “Sorry. Go on.”  
  
“There was a stock of Polyjuice Potion,” Hermione said, returning with a bit of a ruffled-feathers stare to her original statement, “and I was able to track down the owners of some of the hairs they used. It wasn’t hard; they were generally plucking it from the heads of apothecaries when they bought the ingredients for the potion. Have you seen a woman who looked like this before?” She waved her wand, murmuring a complex charm Harry didn’t know, and the sudden image of a small, gray-haired woman spun out of the tip and into the air in front of him.  
  
Harry sat up with an exclamation. “I did!” he said. “She was the one who came up to me the day that I took Teddy for ice cream. Said she wanted my signature for her daughter who’d been crippled in the war.”  
  
Hermione nodded. “And she really  _does_  have a daughter who was crippled in the war—but she wasn’t the one who asked for your signature. It was someone Polyjuiced as her. That’s how they managed to put your genuine signature on that letter about Malfoy.”  
  
Harry bit his lip thoughtfully. The suspicion he’d entertained was a bit closer to the surface than before, but still not ripe yet. “Once again,” he said, “there’s a level of intelligence there, but their execution—“ He shook his head.  
  
“Of course, some of that can be explained by caution,” Hermione said knowledgeably. “They aren’t ready to move yet, so they tried to crouch low and do things that would escape the knowledge of the Blood Reparations Department.”  
  
“But kidnapping us was fairly stupid, if that’s what they really want.” Harry tapped his fingertips together.  
  
“I know.” Hermione spread her hands helplessly. “But I think—well, they didn’t torture you physically. It was only because that woman slapped you that I managed to find you at all. I think they meant that box to break you.”  
  
“But—“  
  
“Mentally,” Hermione said. “If they could break your wills, they might have been able to convince you to do what they wanted more easily.”  
  
Harry nodded slowly. “Get Draco to confess that he really had murdered Esther Goldstein, for example. And maybe even his wife.”  
  
“Exactly. And what couldn’t they do with a Savior of the Wizarding World who was tame to their will? They might even have done it because they know that you can throw off the Imperius.” Hermione looked grim. “But most people know that by now, so that doesn’t narrow our pool of suspects by much.”  
  
Harry looked at the lines in front of him. They stared blandly back. Of course, since this was just a copy of the original letter, maybe he shouldn’t expect it to look all that threatening, Harry thought.  
  
 _To the ones who would help us protect our world, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are now in Diagon Alley…_  
  
Abruptly, Harry sat up, staring at the letter. And the idea swelled and burst in his head as unstoppably as the conviction that Draco had been up to something dastardly during their sixth year.  
  
 _To the ones who would help us protect our world…_  
  
“That’s it,” he said quietly. “It’s two. At  _least_  two.”  
  
“What?” Hermione demanded, leaning forwards like a hunting hound.  
  
“The groups,” Harry said, looking up, knowing that his eyes must be on fire. He’d sometimes uncovered insights like this in his work with the Blood Reparations Department, and his eyes always looked like that when he did. “We say that Salazar’s Snakes are making some brilliant moves and some dumb ones, but what if they’re not making  _all_  the moves? What if they’re making the majority of the dumb mistakes, and the people warning them and brewing the Polyjuice and controlling the manor where they were headquartered are part of a different group? A smarter one?”  
  
Hermione closed her eyes and shook her head for long moments.  
  
“What?” Harry asked, unable to keep his voice from sharpening a little. He’d used Dreamless Sleep for the last two nights, and his temper seemed worse each time, as if the dreams of Draco contained some essential mineral that he needed to keep calm. But Ginny had gone off to practice with a happy smile this morning, which made him somewhat regretful that this was one of the nights when he’d have to sleep without the potion. “What did I miss?”  
  
“I’m scolding myself,” Hermione whispered. “Harry, of  _course_  that’s it. I’m stupid not to have seen it at once, especially given the current political climate.” She opened her eyes and beamed at him.  
  
“Well?” Harry nearly wanted to spring across the table and choke the breath from her. “ _Tell_  me.”  
  
“Pure-bloods and Muggleborns are at each other’s throats all over,” Hermione began quietly, steepling her fingers. “It’s not just the extremist groups anymore. We can hardly speak to the Muggleborns who left the wizarding world; we’re kept so busy fighting rumors of laws that are going to favor pure-bloods, or actual legislation passed by wizards who are mad enough to want Muggleborn children  _Obliviated_  of the memory of ever having magic instead of sent to Hogwarts. The rumors are coming from disparate sources, which puzzled us, because we’re much better about tracking them to their roots, usually.”  
  
Harry nodded. He understood. He felt a brief pang that he hadn’t been able to do his work for the Department lately, or he would have known about this burgeoning political firestorm himself, but his family and Draco had been more important. When this current mess was over, Quidditch season might be over, too, and then Ginny could stay home with the children more often while Harry returned to helping out with Blood Reparations.  
  
“But if there are a few groups working together—“ Hermione stopped suddenly, and her lips became bloodless.  
  
“What is it?” Harry asked quietly. He knew no single supremacist group had the kind of reputation that could make her look like that. The most violent ones also tended to be the smallest, since they regularly fell out with each other.  
  
“Harry,” Hermione said, and her voice was so fragile that Harry stood, rounded the table, and embraced her. “Oh, Harry. I think—I think it’s pure-blood and Muggleborn supremacist groups working  _together_.” She tilted her head back so that she could look up at him through watery eyes.  
  
“What?” Harry said. “Hermione, that’s—that’s ridiculous. They never agree on anything, so what could they both want that would persuade them to work together instead of killing each other?”  
  
“A war,” said Hermione. “They want another war, Harry. They might agree to work together for a little while if they knew that at the end of that time, they’d  _get_  to kill each other. That’s what we’ll never give them, of course.” Already she was sitting up, gathering her strength and becoming the strong woman Harry knew and adored, though she made no move to leave the circle of his arms as yet. “So long as the Blood Reparations Department exists, they can’t do what they want with impunity. And they’ll try to eliminate us. And you, since they know that you’re sure a big proponent of tolerance, and there are a lot of people who’d back you just because you’re Harry Potter. And Malfoy—“  
  
“Got caught up in one stray tendril of this massive thing,” Harry finished, quiet himself now as the vision of devastation that had reached Hermione struck him. “They’re probably hoping that his arrest for the murder of Esther Goldstein would outrage the pure-bloods enough to do something.”  
  
“Or they’re hoping that the immense brutality of the murder would outrage the Muggleborn community.” Hermione wiped at her eyes with her robe sleeve. “Or both.” She sucked in her breath. “Oh, Harry! They’re probably planting and planning incidents like this all over, hoping that one will become a flashpoint of violence. They might have expended so effort on Malfoy just because it’s a good setup and because you’re involved.”  
  
Harry opened his mouth to say that Draco was quite worth a herculean effort all by himself, but Hermione was already rising and saying, “I’ve got to get back to the Ministry and contact Shacklebolt right away. He needs to know—“  
  
The world went white and gold.  
  
Harry felt an immense wind pulling him, tugging, rippling him forwards. The library floor was going from beneath him. The tunnel of light that he had seen the other times he held Draco’s hand and turned his wounds into scars spiraled before him, a lazy maelstrom about to suck him down.   
  
Harry tried to think of his children, but the whirlwind did not stop pulling him when Al and James flashed through his head. He tried to imagine the pressure of Lily’s small fists against his neck, and thought he felt the wind slow a bit.  
  
But he was still going.  
  
Desperate, he pictured Hermione, felt the weight and warmth of her in his arms again, heard her concerned voice, and felt humbled before the strength of the dedication she had sunk into the Blood Reparations Department. She was his friend, one of his best friends, and if he went somewhere else, he would never see her again.  
  
The light ripped open in front of him. For just a moment, Harry caught a glimpse of himself, a faint and shadowy version of him, on the other side of what seemed to be a thick pane of glass. He was hugging a taller figure whose face Harry couldn’t see, since it was buried in that Harry’s shoulder, but from the white-blond hair, it was unmistakably Draco. On Harry’s other shoulder, ruffled and hopping from foot to foot to keep her balance, was a snowy owl who looked just like Hedwig. An open cage on the ground beside the other Harry’s foot said that she was a new gift.  
  
Harry closed his eyes, not acknowledging what looked like the story he’d been dreaming, and ripped backwards with all his might, clutching the image of Hermione in front of his heart like a talisman. Softness beat against his face. He refused to look. He turned his head aside.  
  
 _I am not in you_ , he told the mirror image in his head.  _I am not of you. I do not want you. Leave me alone!_  
  
The force pulling him ceased, and he sagged to his knees, and then stumbled sideways and hit the library table a stunning blow with the side of his head. He swore, not at all softly, and raised a hand to his temple as pounding footsteps told him his sons were approaching.  
  
“Daddy?” Al’s frightened and concerned voice asked.  
  
“Dad!” James echoed, but with a reproachful tone to the word, as though Harry had played a shameful trick by getting down on the floor.  
  
“I’m all right,” Harry said quietly, opening his eyes, and reaching out to gather his sons against him. Hermione’s wand flicked in the corner of his eye, and he felt the pain on the side of his head ease. She had probably removed the wound before James or Al could catch sight of it, and Harry was grateful.  
  
He hugged his children for a long moment, and then something soft whirled against his hair.  
  
White owl feathers.  
  
The same kind that had covered his face and hands the night that Draco had taken the wounds from the mirror, and Harry had healed them.  
  
Harry turned his head away from them, and looked up at Hermione. Her face was paler than it had gone when she figured out what the supremacist groups working together might mean.  
  
“I think you should figure out the curse as soon as possible, Harry,” she said. “For everyone’s sake.” She paused for a long moment, then added, “And maybe you should stop seeing Malfoy. Just for a little while.”  
  
“Not possible,” Harry said, and spat out a feather that had lodged in the corner of his mouth. “As you saw, it can attack me anywhere, so there’s really no point in trying to escape it by avoiding him. Besides, I need to tell Draco what we learned about the supremacist groups.”  
  
Hermione sighed at him, but nodded. “Fine. You and Ginny are still coming over to dinner tonight?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry said at once. He could hear Lily crying, and Al was giving quiet little sobs, too. His body thrummed with the ancient instinct to comfort them. “I’ll be fine, Hermione.” He ignored her incredulous snort. “I will,” he insisted.  
  
In the end, she helped him settle Lily down with a bottle before she left, and gave him an intensely skeptical glance as she went out the door.  
  
Harry ignored it, and bowed his head to smell Lily’s hair and watch the motions of her tiny fingers on the enchanted, floating bottle as he rubbed Al’s back soothingly. The best thing to be done with those aspects of his life he couldn’t change was to ignore them.  
  
He and Draco would defeat the curse, and he would learn whatever it was that Ginny wanted him to learn in those sessions with the therapist, and he and Hermione would fight this war, and he would take care of his children. That was normal. All of it was normal. And he would be all right because he had to be.  
  
And the Harry and Draco of that other story would not be real, because he refused to allow them to be. Besides, if there were two of them in their story, and they both existed and were happy with one another, what the fuck did they need  _him_  for?  
  
*  
  
Draco had a small smile on his face as he paced around his mother’s rose garden. The peacocks kept away from this part of the house; Draco was entirely alone except for the roses and a few lazy bees buzzing around them, and the sparkling pool nearby, which produced its own water and was always a placid green no matter what the color of the sky.  
  
Draco was proud of himself. He had finally the taken the initiative and reached out to those offers of help that had always been there and which he could have accepted earlier, after ten years of doing nothing. He had contacted Blaise Zabini.  
  
Blaise’s face had been cautiously pleased when he stared through the green-tinted flames and saw Draco peering back. “Draco! To what do we owe the pleasure?”  
  
“We?” Draco asked curiously. He’d known that Blaise had bonded—casually, the kind of bond that could be dissolved as easily as any Muggle marriage—but he’d never known who it was with, since he’d torn up the invitation to the wedding when it arrived.  
  
Blaise grinned at him, and made a gesture to someone beyond the fireplace. Millicent Bulstrode moved into view, leaning against the mantle as she regarded him with cool, considering eyes. Draco blinked. He hadn’t expected that Blaise would marry Millicent, whom he’d ignored or taunted for her ugliness in school.  
  
“Congratulations,” he said awkwardly. “I suppose that your bonding must have been—er, fruitful.” He knew the wedding invitation had come more than five years ago, which meant that Blaise and Millicent had lasted longer than he would have thought.  
  
Blaise tossed back his head and laughed. “Oh, I married and parted from Emily a long time ago,” he said. “I didn’t mind her fucking other people, but I insisted that she be clean while she did it, and she could never keep that part of the bargain.”  
  
Draco shivered in disgust.  
  
“Blaise and I aren’t married,” Millicent observed calmly, in that voice of hers that had always been too deep for a woman’s. “Just living together.” She gave Blaise a faint smile that Draco could sense had a thousand undertones he didn’t know and might never know.  
  
Suddenly, he wished he knew them. He had ignored these people who had been his friends in school for far too long.  
  
He wondered, just as suddenly, if Blaise could be part of some supremacist pure-blood group. It wasn’t like he’d know. And Blaise had always despised blood traitors like the Weasleys; he never would have fucked Ginny Weasley no matter how attractive he thought she was.  
  
“Well?” Blaise asked. “What is your pointy little face darkening about  _now_?”  
  
Licking his lips cautiously, Draco told them as much of the truth as he dared. And he felt it begin to come back to him as he spoke—the duck and play, cut and dodge, of speaking with Slytherins. Blaise and Millicent might be active in politics, and they might have their secrets, but so did he. They really had no more idea what his life had been like in the past ten years than he had about theirs.  
  
As he described the situation, Blaise grew more and more quiet, Millicent more and more intense and interested. She asked rapid-fire questions about the murder and Salazar’s Snakes that showed a great deal of intelligence, and by the end she looked like some nundu on the hunt.  
  
“We can help,” she said. “I have—well, contacts that the Ministry wouldn’t know anything about. And I’m fairly certain that I can find out who owned that manor they imprisoned you in.” She grinned faintly. “I’ve done a bit of trade in hidden sanctuaries and shuffling the paperwork of ownership myself.”  
  
Draco nodded. “What will you want in return?”  
  
“For now? Don’t be a stranger,” Millicent retorted. “After that, I’ve got a few projects that it would look good if Harry Bloody Potter showed approval for.”  
  
Draco nodded again. He was not sure that he trusted Millicent, but he had to begin somewhere. And he really didn’t think that she or Blaise would have drawn him in like this only to sell him out later. There would have been polite hints that his politics and theirs were too far apart, and there the conversation would have ended.  
  
Still, as he prepared to withdraw from the Floo connection, he couldn’t help but ask, “Why are you suddenly so interested in helping me?”  
  
Millicent cocked her head. “You mean you never knew?”  
  
“Never knew what?”  
  
“I’m a half-blood.” Millicent rolled her eyes at his stunned shock. “Not about to join the people who think, not to put too fine a point on it, that I shouldn’t exist. And Blaise does what I tell him to.”  
  
And  _then_  the conversation ended.  
  
Draco grinned a bit and pushed himself to a faster walk. He’d once done his best thinking when he moved around outdoors. And it was better for him to spend a little time in the sunshine every day than brood uselessly in the Manor the way he often did.  
  
He was thinking what other old friends he could contact—he’d once had Crabbe’s Floo directions somewhere, and he thought his mother still did—when the wind began to blow around him, and the air turned thickly golden.  
  
Draco flung himself to his knees, grabbing one of the rosebushes. The thorns scratched wildly at his hands, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t going down any tunnel.  _Now_ , just when his life had begun to go well again and he had the hope of its going better still, he was not about to vanish into another world.  
  
He lifted his head, eyes squinting against the light, and saw it parting like a storm to reveal a vision beyond curtains of rain. He saw himself lying on the ground in this very garden, his head in Harry’s lap. Harry was carding his fingers through his hair, smoothing Draco’s brow over and over again. His voice was deep and soothing; Draco knew instinctively that it would be, though he couldn’t actually hear it. Around them twisted tumbled rose petals, as though they’d been fighting among the flowers before this quiet scene.  
  
Draco thought his double looked shadowy and stretched thin, as though he were bereft of substance somehow.  
  
But the wind was  _not_  going to snatch him into that world to make the other whole.  
  
He bowed his head and thought with all his might of Millicent, of her dark brown eyes, of the sudden way her face had cleared when she saw a way to both help Draco and turn the situation to her own advantage—  
  
And the wind stopped. The light was gone. Draco lifted his head and stared down at his hands. They bore scratches from the roses, of course, but it was the petals on the ground and splayed across his legs that caught his attention.  
  
They smelled—rotted. They smelled like the scent Harry had described the night Draco’s arm had been scarred by the exploding mirror glass.  
  
“What is happening to us?” Draco whispered, and, healing or not, he badly wished Harry was there at that moment.  
  
The next moment, he wished it even more. Something snatched him from behind, and bore him into the air. Twisting, scrabbling wildly for his wand, Draco managed to see what it was.  
  
A fist of water had formed itself out of the pool. Everywhere Draco looked, he took the reflection of his own face from the glassy wave. And then it snapped to around him and hauled him beneath the surface.  
  
The wounds on his hands from the roses stung and burned. Draco thought that, combined with the surge from the water, marked the advent of the fourth scar and the third violent attack from a reflective surface.  
  
But this time, Harry wasn’t here to save him.  
  
He battered uselessly against the water, his legs striking nothing, and his desperately held breath leaked through his lips in tiny bubbles of air, and his ears were ringing, and behind his eyelids the darkness was red, red as roses, dark as roses, as he drowned and drowned and drowned.


	19. Bound

Harry landed gently on the edge of the Manor’s anti-Apparition wards. It had taken him what felt like forever to settle Lily so that she was sleeping, and then he’d watched Al and James play with the wands, unable to trust himself further away than a few feet from them. Horrible as it was, he wanted his family to be an anchor in that moment, his children a ballast that would draw him into their soft, unimportant conflicts and away from the weight of war that Hermione had delivered to him.  
  
He had almost hoped that George would arrive later than he’d promised he would. Ostensibly, he was coming so that Harry could have a few extra hours to go to Diagon Alley and buy new dress robes for the dinner tonight. But when Harry mumbled and flushed as he stepped away from George, the other man had simply given him an understanding look and nodded. Harry suspected his behavior wouldn’t be mentioned to Ginny.  
  
He wouldn’t be at Malfoy Manor for very long, he reassured himself as he jogged up the path towards the doors; the iron gates had dissolved for him as usual. After all, he didn’t want to watch the weight of war settle on Draco’s shoulders, either. It would dishearten him to hear that  _some_  of his enemies were organized, powerful, and clever.  
  
It would be lighter for him, at least. That, Harry could try and use to cheer himself up. Draco was only a victim. He could concentrate on the healing and regrowth of his soul. Harry would be in the front ranks of soldiers with Hermione, struggling to subdue the forces that wanted to tear apart and subjugate the wizarding world. Where else should a hero be?  
  
 _Stop it_ , he told himself, and swallowed his self-pity all at once, bitter and congealed lump that it was.  _Draco faced things that are harder than what you’re going through right now, and he’s still whole. Stop feeling as though you’ll be ripped in two; you know very well that you won’t be, and that you can survive this the way you’ve survived anything else._  
  
He was almost to the front doors of the Manor when a burning in the scar over his heart nearly sent him to his knees. Harry gasped and pressed a hand to his chest, stunned when he felt heat actually rising through his shirt.  
  
“What the hell?” he whispered, and lifted his head, looking frantically around the gardens for a cause of the burning. Was Draco out here?  
  
The scar pulled at him, like a rope that nearly sent him sprawling before he fought his way to his feet and followed the tug. It yanked harder, evidently not satisfied with his obedience, and Harry swallowed soundlessly as he sped up.  
  
 _This is getting worse. What in the world can we do to satisfy it? I don’t—I don’t understand—_  
  
And then he burst into a sheltered corner of the rose gardens, only vaguely noticing that there were no peacocks here, and came to a stop, a small shocked sound breaking from his throat.  
  
Above a pool floated an enormous, glistening bubble of water, reminding Harry of a Shield Charm, if a Shield Charm could be bent and twisted to go over one’s head and under one’s feet as well as in front of the body. Inside the bubble floated Draco, his hair streaming as if he fell, his face turning a terrible bloated color.  
  
Harry didn’t need the burning in his chest or the tug forwards to find inspiration this time; he was already running feverishly, drawing his wand and screaming so hard that it made his throat hurt, “ _Accio_  Draco!”  
  
The whole bubble flew towards him, while Draco’s face turned more horrible colors. Harry screamed wordlessly this time, cast a Bubble-Head Charm on himself so fast that it seemed he’d willed it to appear, and then held his arms above his head in a diving position as the bubble struck him.  
  
Water flooded all around him, crashing to the ground in a violent flood that should have broken the bubble apart. Harry wasn’t surprised to find that it’d expanded instead, though, and that he was abruptly subjected to pressure at least as great as anything he’d felt in the Hogwarts lake during the second task of the Triwizard Tournament.  
  
He didn’t  _care_. He couldn’t care about anything at that moment but Draco drifting a few feet away from him. His universe had become exactly as small or large as that bubble was.  
  
He sliced through the water, and if he wasn’t a terrific swimmer, he was at least better than he’d been when he plunged into that pool in the woods all those years ago to retrieve the Sword of Gryffindor. He looped his arms around Draco, focused his magic—if there was any time when he ought to be able to perform wandlessly, it was now, when his heartbeat actually rocked his body with terror—and cast the Bubble-Head Charm again.  
  
The contained air appeared around Draco’s head. He began to cough, promptly filling it with water. Harry launched a shattering kick backwards, hurting his legs, and cradled Draco against his torso as if resting him there would make the near-drowning less likely to have hurt him.  
  
They flopped out of the water, which had finally broken and now did surround them with a flat, shallow pool, turning the grass into a marshy mat. Harry removed the Bubble-Head Charms and pounded on Draco’s chest, trying to get the water out of his lungs.  
  
Draco coughed, but his head lolled limply to the side, even when Harry slapped him, and he wasn’t breathing.  
  
Harry felt his sanity trembling and threatening to break as the spell holding the bubble together had. He  _wasn’t breathing._  
  
“God, no,” he thought he said, and then he forced himself to remember what Hermione had told him concerning Muggle methods of lifesaving. It wasn’t as though he regularly dealt with drowned people in his line of work, but didn’t—didn’t it go something like pinching the nose, and tilting the head back, and breathing into the mouth?  
  
Well, if it didn’t, he didn’t know anything better to do, and goddamn it, he needed  _something_  to do, or he would go  _mad_.  
  
He grabbed Draco’s nose, tilted his head back, and leaned down to breathe directly into his mouth.  
  
The moment their lips touched, the scar on Harry’s chest burst into flame again. This time, though, Draco arched beneath him, and Harry saw a faint white-gold light streaking upwards through his robes. Draco moaned in something like pain, or perhaps ecstasy, and then the light was everywhere.  
  
Harry felt the moments when the scar on his forehead, the remnants of the quilled words on his right hand, and the marks of Nagini’s bite on his forearm flared as well. Draco’s brow and forearm and hands answered—yes, even his hands, Harry saw, which were marked with puffy scratches that might have been the work of thorns.  
  
And then the water raced out of Draco’s mouth, and divided into two reaching tendrils around them, and bound them in an extra embrace.   
  
Harry, who couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t part his lips from Draco’s, didn’t know for certain if all the scars followed the same pattern that the one on his chest and the _Sectumsempra_  scars on Draco’s chest did, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if they did. The white-gold light he was bleeding and the white-gold light bleeding from Draco shot out like the water had, swayed in confused beams for a moment, and then knotted together like pairs of clasping hands. Harry shivered.  
  
The fire had changed character. Now it was not the same painful sensation that had attacked him when he nearly went into the Manor and left Draco to drown, but the same sublime warmth he’d sometimes felt in his dreams. It wasn’t sexual—not quite—but it  _bound_  them. He shivered again, and would have collapsed onto Draco, except that the banded light and the hovering water made it impossible to move down as well as up.  
  
The warmth worked its way in from the outside and outwards from the scars, and Harry had to shut his eyes. He wondered for a moment if he would die of the heat, which steadily increased. Perhaps they would find his body locked to Draco’s with the marks of a mysterious heatstroke or dehydration all over it.  
  
But then the warmth died away. Harry could move again. He lifted his head and sat back on his heels, peering anxiously down at Draco. He had assumed, without even thinking about it, that the vanished water meant he hadn’t drowned, but he might have suffered in other ways.  
  
He winced at the thought of that suffering. And the thought of causing it—what if, in resisting the curse earlier, he’d inspired it to wreak this damage on Draco?—made him want to wear out his throat apologizing.  
  
Draco’s eyes were open. He was awake and aware. He took several deep, steady breaths, the sound rasping but clearing out, an unreadable expression on his face. His stare was fixed on Harry, and while it was so, the bands of light and water seemed to have come back again. Harry knelt obediently still, certain Draco didn’t want him to move.  
  
“Help me up,” Draco whispered. “We need to talk.”  
  
Harry was more than happy to do so, even though he had begun to shiver again. He had a dim presentiment again, and this time, the idea that was struggling to be born concerned what Draco had to say.  
  
Harry was more than happy to put it off as long as possible.  
  
*  
  
“I should have thought of it before, really.”  
  
It was nearly half-an-hour later. Draco was dry and warm now, wearing a new set of robes, and tucked into his own bed, at Harry’s insistence. Harry had the same chair in which he’d sat to watch over Draco the night he’d been wounded by the mirror. And he was holding Draco’s hand in his, and nibbling his lip, the expression on his face sometimes worried, sometimes ghastly with a terror Draco didn’t think was at all for himself.  
  
Draco gazed at him evenly. It was no good running from this. If Harry tried, Draco would just have to be the pillar of strength Harry had been for him in the box, and repeat the truth until Harry acknowledged it.  
  
However, with a final deep breath not unlike the one he’d probably drawn before he sent his broom plunging after the Snitch, Harry finally looked back at Draco. And his green eyes were full of that relentless, unflinching bravery again. Draco approved.  
  
“I should have thought of it,” he whispered. “The correspondence was too great. Four scars. Four life-debts. The scars are the  _conduits_  for this curse. You said that you felt yours burning the night that my mother sent the letter to demand you fulfill your debt to her by exonerating me?”  
  
Harry nodded hesitantly. A spark of disbelief had caught at the back of his eyes. Draco ignored it for now. This was all speculation, yes, just like everything else about the curse, but it was informed speculation. He was confident that Harry would incline to his view of the situation as he continued to explain.  
  
“And since then, the curse has been trying to inflict an equal number of scars on me,” Draco continued softly, staring at his forearm, and then his hands. To his complete lack of surprise, the wounds from the roses had closed on his right hand into the shape of faint silvery scars, no different in size from the ones he’d got from the mirror. He wondered, however, if Harry had noticed the new scar yet. “Presumably because that will make its operation easier.”  
  
“That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard,” Harry said flatly.  _At least he didn’t say it was the most insane_ , Draco thought gratefully. “Why choose the scars to work through? And it—it has to be a coincidence that the number of life-debts we had between us and the number of scars I gained are the same.”  
  
Draco shrugged. “I’m still not sure where this magic came from, Harry.” He smiled slightly; he’d nearly called Harry “Potter.” It was instinct when he got that tone in his voice, as though they were back at Hogwarts arguing over some unimportant matter. “I suspect it can have its own laws if it wants to. It may have arisen only because it’s been ten years and we still hadn’t made a motion towards fulfilling our mutual life-debts. And then it chose your scars to match the number of life-debts, perhaps, not the other way around. If you’d had four fingers on one hand, perhaps it would have chopped off one of mine to make us even.”  
  
Harry exhaled loudly and closed his eyes. “All right. I have to admit that that sounds as if it makes sense—in a mad kind of  _way_ —and now that you have four scars—“  
  
Draco shifted.  
  
“—I really can’t argue against it.” Harry opened his eyes and pinned him with a desperate stare. “And so now we’re returned to my major question.  _Why?_  Why was the infliction of this particular scar so much more dangerous than the others?”  
  
Draco sighed. “Harry, I don’t think it was dangerous at all.”  
  
“Bollocks!” Harry leaned forwards, his grip on Draco’s hand tightening to painful. Draco only had to flex his fingers once, though, and Harry leaned back with a contrite look that told Draco his suspicions were likely to be correct. “You nearly  _died_. You would have drowned if I hadn’t shown up.”  
  
“But you did show up,” Draco pointed out.  
  
A dark flicker moved in Harry’s eyes. “I had something to tell you.”  
  
It would be nothing good, Draco suspected, but he put aside both suspicion and enlightenment for now. “But what did you see when you arrived? Was I simply drifting in the pool?”  
  
“You were in a bubble above it,” Harry said, and suddenly his entire body bent and twisted as if he were caught in a bitter winter wind. “The curse  _arranged_  that,” he whispered. “It  _arranged_  for you to be caught like that until I could arrive and rescue you.”  
  
Draco nodded. “I’m sure it did.”  
  
Harry shook his head wearily. “But why? Why wouldn’t it have just wanted me to heal your wound to a scar? Why make it a rescue?”  
  
Draco lifted his left hand. Harry frowned at it, uncomprehending, and then his eyes focused and he gasped. Draco nodded again. He had seen the new scar that lay there, then. The wounds from the roses had covered both his hands, and all had healed, instead of some thinning to scars and some vanishing.  
  
He reached out and turned Harry’s left hand over. On the back of it shone a new scar, the same faint red color that all of Harry’s marks were. Harry stared at it in wonder, but Draco thought the wonder a mask over fear.  
  
“What happened when you rescued me, Harry?” Draco asked quietly.  
  
Harry bowed his head, and something like a sob came out of him. “I saved your life. It’s a fifth life-debt.” He breathed in silence for a moment, and then said, “Oh,  _shit_.”  
  
“Yes,” Draco said. He spent a moment stroking Harry’s hair, letting them both gather their strength for what was to come. Harry would help him support it, in the end, but for the moment Draco needed to be the one to say the words, playing Harry’s former role. “The curse is self-sustaining, now. It can put us in danger again and again, or we can fall into danger ourselves as we investigate Goldstein’s murder and the activities of the Snakes, and of course we’ll rescue each other. Each time we do, it’s a new life-debt. The curse is moving to tie us to each other irrevocably. And I think we can safely say that the more scars that accumulate, the more conduits, the stronger it will grow.”  
  
“It doesn’t make  _sense_.” Harry sat up restlessly, tossing his head back so that Draco’s palm flew off his hair. Draco didn’t mind. He did tighten his grip on Harry’s hand so he couldn’t get up and pace, though. He thought Harry should be sitting down by the time they arrived at the next revelation, and besides, he wanted him close. “After all, no new life-debt scars appeared when I turned the wounds on your forearm and forehead into scars.”  
  
“Those were dangerous,” Draco said. “And I think the curse needed them to become conduits. These last scars—“ He nodded again at the faint marks of the roses, which stretched from between his fingers to cross his knuckles. “They weren’t life-threatening. Even if they’d bled copiously, I wasn’t in danger from  _them_. The magic arranged for you to find me drowning, instead, so that it could start constructing new life-debts immediately. And it attacked through the pool—“  
  
“A reflective surface,” Harry whispered.  
  
“Yes,” Draco said.  _God, I’m glad that he accepts this and talks to me sanely instead of making a scene. There are far worse people I could be trapped in a mess like this with_. “I think I even have an answer as to why it might have done that just then. I was resisting a pull into a tunnel of light—“  
  
“So was I!” Harry sat up further, so fast that Draco thought he might have hurt himself. “Or I did. Earlier today, I mean.”  
  
Draco nodded. “Whatever those tunnels of light signify, or that pull through the mirror that you told me you’d been subjected to when you still had mirrors in your house, I think they might be the more direct methods the curse employs. If we’d gone through them, it wouldn’t have to do the rest of this to us. But we didn’t, and then I took the wounds on my hands from clawing at the rosebushes. I think the curse saw an opportunity, and took it, both to give me the fourth scar and move us into the next stage.”  
  
“We’re talking about it like it’s intelligent, you realize?”  
  
“In a way, it is,” Draco said. “At least, it’s merciless in its purpose. Rather like long-lasting commands from the Imperius Curse. Not that I would know anything about that, of course,” he added in a superior tone—a stupid digression, but he’d badly needed to see Harry smile, even such a wan version of the expression as he got then. “But the commands keep on functioning even if the caster dies, as long as no one notices the curse and removes it. I think this magic is like that. It’s in motion now. Whatever it wants to achieve, it’s pressing ahead. When it finds a chance to make things better—for itself, that is—it takes it. And now it has a method that can keep on piling up and piling up, linking us to each other with life-debts forever.”  
  
“That’s what I don’t understand,” Harry whispered, sounding broken now. “What  _does_  it want? In whose interest is it for us to be linked?”  
  
And now came the revelation that had occurred to Draco while Harry fussed over him (and, at his request, concealed his half-drowned state from Narcissa). He didn’t want to give it, but neither would he hide it. He and Harry would face the future together.  
  
Besides, if he was right, they would soon have no choice about doing so.  
  
“I don’t think anyone cast this, Harry,” he said quietly. “It’s a natural side-effect—“  
  
Harry snorted.  
  
“More or less natural,” Draco corrected himself, and then paused a moment to wonder that he could know what Harry was thinking so easily. A pressure on his hand made him blink and continue. “It’s a side-effect of so many life-debts piled together. I’ve never heard of a case exactly like this, where the same number of life-debts was owed back and forth, and the two people bound like that ignored them for a long time. They weren’t being fulfilled, so they decided to fulfill themselves.”  
  
“But then we could  _still_  escape,” Harry said, his eyes brightening. “I only have to think of two more things that I want, and then all the life-debts are fulfilled.”  
  
“I read something else yesterday that makes me think not,” Draco said. He wished he could turn his face aside so that he didn’t have to watch the crumbling of hope in Harry’s expression, but he cupped his hand along Harry’s cheek instead, and took heart in the way the other man immediately nuzzled into it for comfort. “I didn’t think about it at the time, because my thoughts were elsewhere—plotting and planning on how to get my life back.”  
  
Harry smiled then, his eyes soft and warm.  _He can be happy for others, at least, if not himself_. Draco found himself cradling Harry’s face more gently than ever. “That’s great, Draco. You should. No one deserves a life more than you do.”  
  
Draco smiled back, half-helplessly and half because he knew that the very fervency behind Harry’s declaration was contributing to their problem. “The book I read was on the history of life-debts,” he said. “Why they first started being considered and collected in the mists of history—what the  _point_  of them was. They were first used to settle scores between enemies, apparently.”  
  
Harry made a face. “Seems like an inefficient way to go about it,” he muttered. “After all, you fulfill the life-debt and then you can turn around and kill the bloke who annoyed you the next day.”  
  
Draco nodded slightly. “But the point wasn’t just to hold power over an enemy because he owed you his life,” he said. “The point was that life-debts often went unfulfilled for months, either because the wizard who held them wasn’t eager to give them up or because he couldn’t think of something suitable he wanted in return.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes.  _He sees the edges of it now_ , Draco thought, with a fierce, protective tenderness that amazed him. It somewhat echoed the way he felt about Scorpius, but he knew Scorpius was nearly helpless and would need his care for years to come. Harry wouldn’t always; Draco  _wanted_  to give it to him, though. “They bound the wizards,” he whispered.  
  
“Very good,” Draco said. “Yes. And  _that_  was the point. Harder to consider a bloke your enemy when you’ve lived in close company with him for months—which people who owed each other life-debts used to do—and you feel a bit of responsibility for his life, or know that he saved yours.”  
  
“So you think the life-debts are trying to link us just to link us?”  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
“Did you find anything—“ Harry had to pause and moisten his lips with his tongue. Draco’s eyes followed it in spite of himself. “Did you find anything on what happened if life-debts continued to accumulate? Forget about how long the wizards involved ignored them or if they owed equal numbers to each other. What happens if they’re multiple?”  
  
“Ah,” Draco said. “Well. Some of our ancestors were intelligent people. They knew that some poor wizards wouldn’t have enough material wealth to pay back their benefactors, and they were extremely unlikely to have anything else on offer. Except one thing, which everyone had.  _Themselves_. The gift of a wizard cancels out multiple life-debts.”  
  
Disgust flickered in Harry’s eyes. “Slavery?”  
  
“Nothing like,” Draco rapped out sharply. While he could understand Harry’s dislike for the idea, he wasn’t about to hear pure-blood traditions maligned. “Slavery is unwilling, Harry. That’s why it’s called what it is. No, the gift of themselves. The free and unselfish yielding of their presence, their gifts, their talents, their support. What you did for me in the box,” he clarified, because Harry still didn’t look as if he understood.  
  
Harry straightened at once. “Then why aren’t all our life-debts canceled already? We’ve become friends, we care about each other—“  
  
“Because we are already tied to other people with magic nearly as strong as the life-debts.” Draco tried to soften the blow by lowering his voice, but he suspected that nothing would truly ease it for Harry. “Specifically, our marriage vows.”  
  
Silence, for long moments. The fire flickering in the hearth—which Harry had insisted on, so that Draco could warm up—lit Harry’s anguished stare, and then the tight squeeze of his shut eyes, and then the gleam of a few tears creeping from beneath them.  
  
“Those dreams—“  
  
“Those dreams,” Draco said, “and the visions in the mirrors, and the pictures through the tunnels are, I think, the magic’s suggestion about what would most easily please it. If we became what we are there—not just lovers, not just friends, but freely and wholly each other’s—then it would stop building. That’s what it wants. And that’s the only thing likely to work if we continue to accumulate life-debts as I suspect we will from now on, either because the magic manipulates matters or in the normal course of this hunt. We’re linked to each other, Harry, and it’s because the magic wants us linked. Because the life-debts already tie us in a maze of connections, and the only way to bring them to their full potential is for us to give ourselves to each other.”  
  
More silence. Harry gave little gasping breaths into his hands, which he had pulled away from Draco’s to cover his face. Draco kept the fingers cupping Harry’s jaw in place, though, stroking now and then. He waited to see what would happen.  
  
Harry gave a deep shudder, as if he were controlling the fit of weeping that wanted to overcome him, and then dropped his hands. And Draco bared his teeth when he saw the look in Harry’s green eyes. Yes, there was the bravery, and there was the stubbornness, but it was not turned the way Draco had hoped.  
  
“No,” Harry said quietly, firmly. “I told you before. You have part of me, and that part is all your own. But I won’t give up my connections to other people—my children, my friends, the people I work with—just to be yours. And the only lover I will ever have will be Ginny.”  
  
“Harry, you prat,” Draco said, as gently as he could, which wasn’t very. He’d blessed Harry’s blindness before, because he thought it meant he could coax Harry gently in with Gryffindor tactics. Now he cursed it.  _We’ve already gone too far. The balance is delicate, and it’s going to tip over any minute. And he should have figured out what I’m going to say now for himself_. “The only person your relationship would change with is your wife. I don’t care for Marian, and she doesn’t care for me. You could still have your children and your friends and the people you work with in your life. We wouldn’t vanish into a world of our own. The only thing that would  _need_  to be exclusive is the sexual relationship.”  
  
“And I,” Harry said, his head lowering, his eyes flashing, his hair bristling with the crackle of escaping wild magic, “said.  _No_.”  
  
Draco opened his mouth to point out that it was going to happen anyway, that the magic wouldn’t stop pulling and tugging at them, that he thought it was likely that the dreams Harry had would grow in intensity from now on, that Harry was attracted to him already—  
  
And then he closed his mouth.   
  
Think,  _Draco_ , he scolded himself.  
  
If he spoke those words, he would be pushing Harry. And that would make Harry retreat in injured dignity to the she-Weasel’s side. And she would work hard to keep him there, and Harry would fight to keep from glancing in Draco’s direction ever again.  
  
And that would make the magic all the more likely to continue to build. The gift of themselves to each other had to be equal, and it had to be willing. That much, Draco knew from his reading on life-debts.  
  
And he might be wrong, but he didn’t think he was. If Harry refused, if he  _made_  Harry refuse, it could be months and months still before things ended as they had to end, with Harry following the desires that shone in the back of his eyes. Draco would much rather spend that time nurturing his desires and Harry’s own, so that Harry wouldn’t feel as if he were dragged into this like a cow brought to market.  
  
“All right,” he said quietly. “All right, Harry. I can respect that. We’ll try to solve this by fulfilling the life-debts. Think of things that you want to ask me.” He spread his arms and bowed, half-mocking. “I’m at your service.”  
  
*  
  
Harry reared back and stared at Draco in spite of himself. For a moment, distrust screamed like a raven in the back of his head.   
  
 _He’s planning something, he must be—_  
  
But he couldn’t sustain it, because he already trusted Draco too much. The voice silenced itself, and Harry doubted it would come back again.  
  
And Draco was gazing calmly at him now—not without some distaste in the corners of his mouth, but he had yielded the argument. Or he had seen that it wasn’t worth pressing right now, and decided it would be better to bring it up again later.  
  
Harry couldn’t  _remember_  the last time someone had done that for him.  
  
He smiled, because he utterly couldn’t help himself. If only his heart wasn’t beating fit to break and the desire to speak more wasn’t burning on the tip of his tongue—he wanted to say that wizarding marriage vows weren’t capable of being dissolved, so Draco’s solution wasn’t a solution—he would have spoken words of devotion and friendship, because Draco deserved nothing less.  
  
 _But nothing more, either._  
  
Still, he could swallow his poisoned words when Draco had done so much for him. And he could reach out, clasp Draco’s hand again, and say, “I’ll think on it, all right? Get some rest.”  
  
“You’ll stay,” Draco said, as he settled back against the pillows. It wasn’t a question, and Harry would have been offended if it had been.  
  
“Of course,” Harry said. He winced a bit. He had only just now realized how raw his throat was, doubtless from screaming.  
  
“Here,” Draco said, and picked up his wand, and Transfigured the chair, with Harry still sitting in it. He fell back with a shout of surprise, and found himself lying in a comfortable bed only a bit smaller than Draco’s own. So massive was the bedroom that it fit easily.  
  
And that was another thing. Draco could have been pushy and irritating and insisted that Harry sleep in the same bed as him. And he hadn’t.  
  
Harry didn’t have the words to convey what that meant to him, so he just squeezed Draco’s hand one more time and lay back to watch the silver-gray eyes slide shut. The silver lightning bolt on his forehead didn’t mar his features at all, Harry considered. Rather, it added a balance that had been missing before.  
  
He only meant to watch Draco and guard him from any more manifestations of the curse, but then his eyes slid shut. The sheets beneath him were so soft. The pillows cradled his head much better than the pillows at home did.  
  
He was just…going to rest…for a moment…  
  
*  
  
 _He was gasping and nearly shrieking, pinned down on the bed beneath a steadily licking lover. It had been like this for hours. Or, at least, some time period that might as well have been hours. His skin was so sensitized that even the brush of silk against it made him jerk and writhe as if he were being tortured with Cruciatus.  
  
A pleasant Cruciatus. But still. There was such a thing as enough.  
  
“Please!” he moaned, and thought he heard a satisfied chuckle from his lover. Hadn’t they made a bet, hours and days and centuries ago, that he would beg? Maybe they had. But he didn’t care, he didn’t fucking care, he just wanted something to touch his cock—  
  
And then the hand slipped beneath his body and closed around him. And because it had been hours, and because of who the hand belonged to, the calluses on it that slipped against him, the way the fingers closed and squeezed just on this side of pain, and the harsh, satisfied, panting breaths that brushed his shoulder, he came with just a few strokes, screaming as if this were a victory in battle, a victory to be shared with his lover—_  
  
Draco’s eyes shot open, and he became aware of two things: his body was steaming with heat, all over, and he had just come in his pants, messily enough that he squashed wetly when he rolled over.  
  
He was just in time to hear a few unintelligible but still sweet whimpers from Harry, see the gleam of sweat and passion on his face, and then glimpse the spreading wet spot on the front of his robes.  
  
Draco closed his eyes and turned back over so that Harry wouldn’t be able to see how affected he’d been, in turn. He would just as soon not deal with Harry’s embarrassment should he wake in the next moments. He wanted to think.   
  
And then he became aware of two more things, as he thought.  
  
First, the magic did indeed want to link them, and the links had become easier with their scars now matching each other’s in number. Draco was more than ever convinced he was correct. He was open to the dreams that Harry had always been open to.   
  
Second, if the dreams were always this intense, it was a wonder that Harry hadn’t gone mad yet, and his ability to hold back from touching Draco was miraculous.  
  
 _Will I be as strong, I wonder?_  
  
Draco felt a smile that was probably foolish curving his mouth. He shouldn’t smile. There were still so many problems awaiting them.  
  
But the thought of this, and then the thought of what his life had been like a few weeks ago—  
  
He was rather live a breath of this, and die, than drag through years and years of that gray and closed-in existence.  
  
 _The magic has an ally now, Harry. I’ll do whatever it takes to make us both feel alive.  
  
And to show you that you want it, too._


	20. Enlisted in the War

Harry woke, his eyes fluttering open so slowly that someone crouched above him with wand drawn would have managed to fire several curses in the time that it took him to see. He yawned and stretched his hands above his head, reveling in the languid good feeling that suffused him. He really should reacquire combat reflexes, if the horrible truth he and Hermione suspected  _was_  truth—  
  
And that reminded him that he hadn’t yet told Draco about that horrible truth.   
  
And when he rolled over and felt the wetness coalescing around his groin, he knew exactly why he felt so good.  
  
His face was on fire in moments, and he could almost feel the virtue of the sleep being diminished. He reached over, picked up his wand, and spelled the wetness away as casually as he could, before he dared to peek at the bed next to him and see if Draco had noticed.  
  
Draco’s eyes met his, wide open and calm.  
  
Harry looked away. “Sorry,” he murmured.  
  
“For dreaming? Don’t be.” Draco sounded very gentle. “Besides, I may have—enjoyed myself as well.”  
  
Startled, Harry sat up, and then yelped as his arm went from beneath him and sent him sprawling back on the bed. He must have injured his elbow when he rescued Draco, he thought. He shook his head when Draco looked at him in concern, more interested in talking right now. “I’ve infected you with the dreams?”  
  
“A most pleasant disease, if you have.” Draco wore a faint smile now, and his gaze held Harry’s, not letting it go. Harry caught his breath. He had imagined the deep intimacy and sense of comfort he felt with Draco would dissipate after he woke, but Draco was clearly inviting him to continue it. There was nothing in the world Harry wanted to do right now but look at him.  
  
Recognizing how dangerous that was and could be, he sought to banish thoughts of love with thoughts of war. They had often been the antidote, in his experience. “There’s something else I didn’t tell you, because there wasn’t time,” he said abruptly. Draco’s eyes crinkled a bit at the corners with disappointment. Harry turned his head away, though he told himself he was a coward for it.  _Well, I’ll be brave in a little while_. “Hermione and I think that the source of your problems is actually several groups working together. Both pure-blood and Muggleborn extremists, with at least one group of people substantially smarter than the other.”  
  
“Tell me,” Draco said, his voice growing sharp, “how pure-bloods and Muggleborns can work together without casting the foundation of the universe into ruin.”  
  
Harry outlined the suspicions that he and Hermione had come up with, still keeping his eyes fastened on the sheets of his Transfigured bed. Draco sounded so different from the spiritless man whose listless life Harry had interrupted, and Harry caught himself in the middle of cataloguing every nuance of that change: the heightened tone, the rich interest behind the words, the soft noises he made that were indicative of response.  
  
And then he realized that was dangerous, too, and forced himself to lose count. They would have enough troubles ahead without him complicating this. Yes, the life-bonds had  _already_  complicated this, but, as Draco had agreed, they might yet find a way to escape the seeming demand of the magic.  
  
 _I can think of something I want, in fact._  
  
Harry waited until he had reached the end of his outline of the groups’ plans, as far as he and Hermione had been able to trace them, and then slid into his request. “Draco?” he asked. Draco narrowed his eyes, seeming to stare past him—into the distance of their enemies’ schemes, Harry hoped, from which he would pull more brilliant conclusions to match Hermione’s. “Can I ask for something to fulfill one of the life-debts you owe me?”  
  
Draco was seeing him, now. “What would you want, Harry?” So much feathery desire in that one sentence. Harry’s body tried to react to it. Well, Harry could force that to stop, too, and he used a nonverbal spell that only required a small wand movement to do so.  
  
“Will you—will you stay safe?” Harry licked his lips when Draco frowned at him, clearly not understanding. “Will you—stay away from the fighting, so that I know you’re at least behind powerful wards if our enemies try to attack you again?”  
  
Draco lunged at him across the beds, seizing his hands and shaking them hard. Harry winced from the pressure and the strength of the grip, but he couldn’t withdraw in any way. If nothing else, it was the first time that he’d seen genuine fury at  _him_  kindle in Draco’s face.  
  
“How dare you ask such a thing of me?” Draco’s voice was flat and calm, which made it worse. “They’re my enemies as much as yours, Harry—“  
  
“I know that—“  
  
“And you  _can’t afford_  to leave me behind, not when there’s so much I can do to help,” Draco charged ahead, cutting him off. “It’s better that we work together, not apart, where we’ll just get in each other’s way. It’s  _better_.” Perhaps he saw some traces of doubt lingering around the corners of Harry’s eyes, because he gave his hands another fierce shake. “Besides, you ought to know that I’m incapable of letting you go into battle alone.”  
  
“Something to do with the life-debts?” Harry asked, wondering if he’d missed a consequence of their bond in the intricate explanation of the magic Draco had given him earlier. It was possible. He needed a long time to think about things, while Draco seemed to leap to them instinctively once he had enough facts in front of him.  
  
“No,” Draco said. “What I mean is that I can’t sit back and let someone I care for as much as I care for you walk into battle alone. I couldn’t do it to Scorpius, and I couldn’t do it to Mother—why do you think I fought so hard to protect her our sixth year in Hogwarts?—and I can’t do it to you.”  
  
Harry swallowed.  _So my attempt to keep him safe just resulted in something that’s more dangerous for the both of us._  
  
“And you should know that you can’t ask me for something like that,” Draco went on, definitively. “So. Ask me for something else.”  
  
Harry let out a harsh breath. “I have something.”  
  
“Well?” Draco’s eyes were so bright and challenging that that feeling returned, the one that asked what else in the world Harry wanted to look at. Harry carefully turned from it, swearing softly to himself. The battleground inside his head simply became more and more complicated.  
  
 _That’s not such a difference from the one outside my head, as a matter of fact_. Harry licked his lips and said, “I want you to carry on being  _yourself_  as much as you can—rebuilding your life, and restoring your reputation, and finding things that make you happy again. Don’t let our life-debts and our war overwhelm you completely. Don’t neglect your happiness the way you did so many times this last decade.”  
  
Seeing the sudden still pose Draco had adopted, the way his hands had fallen still in Harry’s, Harry added uncertainly, “Is that all right? I could try wording it a bit better, if you like.”  
  
*  
  
 _He doesn’t realize the consequences of what he’s asking, clearly._  
  
Harry Potter had just given Draco free sanction to do everything that he possibly could to win him.  
  
Draco couldn’t help smiling as he reached out and slipped one hand around the other man’s cheek, letting his fingers splay to cup the jaw and his thumb smooth along Harry’s lips. Harry bowed his head quietly, as if he were receiving one of the numerous Orders of Merlin which he’d been decorated with after the war, and tilted his face to rearrange himself more comfortably.  
  
Heart full to bursting, Draco whispered, “I can do that. I can certainly do that.”  
  
“Good,” Harry said, and he lifted his head, eyes touched lightly by the smile also growing on his lips. He opened his mouth.  
  
Draco never knew what he would have said, because the door of his bedroom flung itself open just then, and admitted a whirlwind in the form of Ginny Potter.  
  
The moment he saw her, Harry’s face changed. He leaned away from Draco and sat up, folding his arms across his chest, looking anxiously at his wife. Draco let his hand drop casually to his side, and only raised an eyebrow when the woman stared at him accusingly.  _He_  hadn’t done anything that he had to be ashamed of.  
  
“Ginny,” Harry breathed. “I forgot all about the dinner at Ron and Hermione’s house. I’m sorry. I came to tell Draco—“  
  
The strength seemed to flood out of her. Maybe it was the way Harry said his name, Draco thought; a Weasley might be able to hear the unconscious caress in his tone. Draco was hoping so, at least. The easiest enemy to fight was one who never took the field of battle.  
  
She gave her first muffled, hiccoughing sob, embracing herself for comfort, and then turned and darted out of the room.  
  
Harry gave Draco an anguished look, and then jumped off the bed and went after her. Draco leaned back carefully against his pillows, considering. He suspected that Ginny had probably arrived while he was asleep, which would explain why he hadn’t felt the wards twang, and that his mother must have let her in. And perhaps she had wandered in search of her husband until now. It was the most rational explanation.   
  
Nevertheless, Draco would speak with Narcissa later, to ensure that his family wasn’t in danger.  
  
For now, he activated the listening wards that could bring him sounds from every room in the Manor if he so desired. They sprang to life in the little antechamber where his rival stood sobbing as if her heart would break, and where Harry was attempting to soothe her tears as best as he could with loving, frantic words.  
  
Draco lay back against his pillows and listened.  
  
*  
  
“Ginny, please—“ Harry said, and tried to hold her. She turned away, still holding herself, curled so much inwards that he couldn’t find a way to embrace her, couldn’t find a hope that she would ever welcome him within her heart again. She was crying, but quietly, her face twisted tight with the urge to suppress the tears. “Please,” he repeated, and put a hand on her shoulder, feeling supremely awkward. The one thing that destroyed his composure utterly was the sight of her tears. She had wept like this the night Lily was born, so painful was the birth---it had cut through all the spells the Healers tried to use to calm her—and Harry had felt the same urge to do something, and the same sense of futility. What would be  _appropriate_? There was nothing in any of the social rules he had learned, or the personal ones he’d made with her in their life together, about what to say when a wife found another man touching her husband as if he had a claim to him.  
  
 _He_  does  _have a claim to me_ , Harry thought.  _They both do_. He took a deep breath, and rose above the pain. If he had wanted to avoid situations like this altogether, he would have stayed away from Draco altogether. No good in complaining about things that he’d asked for.  
  
And if there were no right words, then he would speak his own.  
  
“I didn’t have sex with him,” he said.  
  
The bluntness, or maybe the direct address to what had to be Ginny’s greatest fear, calmed her sobs. She shook her head and stared at him, her arms dropping away from her. Harry spread his hands to the sides, showing that he wouldn’t try to approach her yet.  
  
“He was touching you like…” said Ginny, and then trailed off. Harry supposed that none of the comparisons she could make would have been ones she wanted to hear.  
  
“I know,” Harry said. “And it was pure carelessness on my part to miss the dinner party. I came to Malfoy Manor to tell Draco some bad news about his enemies, found myself saving his life—again—and then fell asleep here and forgot about everything.” He met her eyes. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Ginny closed her eyes. “It’s not really the dinner party,” she said. “It’s everything the dinner party  _represents_. Can you understand, Harry?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry said. “I can.” He looked carefully at her for a moment, wondering whether she was strong enough to stand the words he’d speak, and then decided she was. Ginny had never been a coward. “You’re afraid of losing me to him in soul and heart, not just body.”  
  
“Yes,” Ginny said in turn. “Yes, that’s it  _exactly_.” She raked a hand through her hair, which clung to her face thanks to the sweat and tears, and then glared at him. “And _you_  don’t seem to care much about the danger. Otherwise, why are you spending so much time cuddling beside him and sleeping with him? Because you  _did_  sleep with him, Harry, whether or not sex entered into it.”  
  
“I know,” said Harry, also knowing that arguing semantics was not a good idea right now. “The reason I can’t care as much about the danger is because I know my own resolves. I promised that I wouldn’t abandon Draco after what he suffered in that box. I won’t. And I won’t abandon you, either, because I love you and you’re my wife. I won’t.”  
  
Ginny gave a small stamp of one foot. She was wearing a set of formal blue dress robes, Harry noticed for the first time, so she’d probably come back to the house, prepared for the dinner, and only then realized that he was missing and hadn’t sent or left her word.  
  
He winced, thinking of the fear that would have assaulted him if he’d arrived back at the house like that and found Ginny gone. No, the last thing he could blame her for was worrying.  
  
“What did Malfoy suffer, that you feel so bound to stay with him?” she asked.  
  
Harry bristled. There were many things he would do for Ginny—as many as he would do for Draco—but this was not one of them. “I promised that I wouldn’t tell anyone else his secrets,” he said. “I won’t.”  
  
“Harry.” Ginny took a deep breath, obviously trying to soften her voice, but it hadn’t really worked when she continued. “Please. Just—it could help, you know. I don’t know much about what happened to Malfoy during the war. I could be more sympathetic to him if I did. It might help us become friends.”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Harry said, in the same stubborn tone he’d used when Draco had tried to tell him that they’d need to become lovers. “No, and no again. You heard me, Ginny. There’s many things I’ll do for you. That is not one of them.” He hoped that repeating his flat and uncompromising thoughts would help her see that.  
  
“I don’t understand,” Ginny said, with a ring of wistfulness in her voice. “We used to compromise, Harry. And now it seems as though we oppose each other all the time, and for the smallest and pettiest of reasons.”  
  
Harry felt himself flush. It was true. He had become more and more stubborn and unreasonable lately. But he wasn’t capable of surrendering his promise any more than Draco was capable of staying behind while he went to war.  
  
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened, either.”  
  
“I do,” said Ginny. “Malfoy.” She looked steadily at him. “Harry. I don’t think I’m out of bounds to demand that you give him up. Wouldn’t you feel jealous if you saw another man touching me that way?”  
  
 _Not as jealous as I would have, once_. But Harry considered that that period of his life had passed, mostly, by the time he was seventeen.   
  
“I could control it,” he said in measured tones. “If the other man was a friend who was important to you, I’d  _try_  to control it.”  
  
Ginny held out one hand to him. Harry stepped closer and took it, though he wasn’t sure that he felt like making the peace it implied.  
  
“Think of the children, not of me.” Her voice hovered on the edge of breaking again. “They need both their parents together, not split apart.”  
  
“You’re threatening separation over this?” Harry stared at her incredulously. Though divorce was impossible with the kind of marriage bond he and Ginny had chosen, the couple could live apart, and some completely incompatible pairs chose that route.  
  
“I—“ And then Ginny turned her head away, and her shoulders began to shake, and she was crying again. Harry moved forwards and took her into his arms. He felt an odd reluctance to hold her, but he knew that came from being the one who had caused her tears in the first place.   
  
He hated this, but he saw nothing better to do.  _Just hold on. Just endure. Just do what you have to do. She’ll smile again, one day. One more life-debt to fulfill. Think of something else you want from Draco, and this magic should stop hunting you._  
  
His mind filled with the images of the dream. Harry growled softly and banished them. He was  _not_  allowed to want that.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said softly into Ginny’s hair, over and over again. It was not the best solution, but it was the only one he had. He stroked her back and held her close, and when she turned away and made to depart from Malfoy Manor, he walked with his arm curled around her waist. He couldn’t leave her in that moment.  
  
He did use his wand to cast a Patronus that would bear his goodbye message to Draco. Ginny’s lips tightened when she saw it, but she said nothing. Harry was glad. He would have had to argue with her about keeping in touch with Draco again, and then he would have felt even more wretched than he did.  
  
 _Well, I have another therapy session with Eaglethorpe tomorrow. That might make her feel a bit better._  
  
Harry imagined this done and over with, he and Ginny and Draco at a time years in the future, laughing, as friends, with no inappropriate feelings between him and Draco. A surge of longing struck him so powerfully that his steps wavered for a moment.  
  
 _I want that. That’s what I want.  
  
And if the magic doesn’t permit me to have that, it can go hang.  
  
*  
  
How…interesting._  
  
Draco leaned back against his bed and grinned at the ceiling. He had overcome his startlement from the large silver stag that had pranced into his room and announced in Harry’s voice that he was leaving, and would see him soon. He was reviewing the conversation he had overheard instead.  
  
 _She’s pushing him so hard, and she found his limits almost immediately. On the other hand, I’ve tested him again and again in the past few weeks, and I’ve only met absolute refusal once._  
  
Draco suspected that he and the magic would have things even easier than he’d believed. Oh, Harry was stubborn, but he responded to kindness and rejection much the same way any human being would. Even he wouldn’t be able to fight off the soft embrace of the one in preference for the stony road of the other for long.  
  
And in the meantime…  
  
Draco felt his smile cool, his eyes narrow. In the meantime, there was the war.  
  
He meant to go into it at Harry’s side, and he meant to win. In addition to the information he could gain from Blaise and Millicent, he intended to use his mother’s Ministry contacts. Granted, they had brought them scant information about the Goldstein case, but that no longer worried Draco. Narcissa had asked them why the murderers had framed Draco, and that had been a question that the only ones who could answer it had every reason  _not_  to answer. Draco had a new set of questions to ask now, some so subtle that they would trick truth out of anyone not exceptionally wary.  
  
In this war, he and Harry would fight on the same side.  
  
Draco could not explain how much that thrilled him.  
  
And there was another weapon he could bring to the battlefield, too, one that Harry would assuredly lack: knowledge of Dark Arts. Harry was too noble to use them. Their enemies weren’t. And Draco didn’t intend to die for want of a simple defensive spell that the Ministry had decided to place on a forbidden list in the past—a list they never revised to see if all the magic on it still counted as Dark Arts.  
  
Draco stood and went to find the books he’d thought of, a small, savage grin playing around his mouth.  
  
Yes, they were going to fight.   
  
And they were going to win.  
  
*  
  
“No change from last week, then?” Eaglethorpe’s voice was gruff but sympathetic. Harry merely raised an eyebrow in response, and Eaglethorpe laughed. “Trying not to think about it?”  
  
“Yes.” Harry sat back on the chair of worn green leather and stifled a sigh. He’d spent half the night trying to comfort Ginny, and then, on her insistence, taken the Dreamless Sleep a third time; she’d said she wouldn’t be able to stand waking up to him calling Draco’s name. He wouldn’t be able to use it for at least another four days, now. And if Hermione or Draco found out about it, Harry was sure he’d have his entire stock of the potion raided and destroyed.   
  
But it wasn’t actually  _dangerous_  to use it three nights in a row, as long as it wasn’t more than that and as long as the three nights weren’t consecutive every  _single_  week. Harry was an adult, and he could make his own decisions.  
  
“How many other dreams have you had?” Eaglethorpe asked, the quill in his hand hovering above the length of parchment in front of him.  
  
“One every night I didn’t use Dreamless Sleep,” said Harry. “Five since I last saw you.”  
  
“And they’re all sexual?”  
  
 _Ah, yes, there’s the blush. To think I almost missed it_. Harry shook his head fiercely, though, so that Eaglethorpe wouldn’t think him distracted and obsessed by memories of the dreams. “No. One was. But the others were—fairly ordinary, really. About arguments and a Ministry function that bored me out of my skull and an attempt by Draco’s house-elves to redecorate the Manor which went disastrously.” He found himself smiling faintly. Draco’s dismay in that last dream had been so comical that Harry found himself wanting to slip hints to the Malfoy house-elves, just to compare the expression on his face in real life to the one that the magic created.  
  
“Hm.” Eaglethorpe scribbled something down on the parchment, then looked up at him. “And have the dreams altered in any way?”  
  
Harry hesitated.  
  
“The truth, Mr. Potter, please.” The therapist’s voice was gentle. “Believe me, I am under heavy oaths not to talk about this to anyone else.”  
  
“It’s not that,” said Harry. “I was just thinking of how to phrase it.”  
  
“Then please, don’t let me hurry you.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes and thought. Then he said, ready to retract the words at any moment if he thought of a better way to say it, “One thing has happened constantly, I think, but I only noticed it now. I can remember the dreams perfectly. It’s as though—they’re more like memories of a life than stories. I forget stories pretty easily. But these are like filling in the blanks of a friend’s life, one by one. Or recovering from amnesia. Unnaturally bright, and unnaturally sharp.”  
  
“Thank you,” said Eaglethorpe, and wrote it down. “That could be very important information. And for my part, I believe you described it perfectly.”  
  
Harry opened his eyes and gave him a quick smile.  
  
“And the other new thing?”   
  
“My children are there,” Harry said softly. “All three of them. My daughter Lily, and my sons James and Al,” he elaborated, when Eaglethorpe’s eyes invited him to introduce his children. “And Draco’s son, Scorpius. The same age as they are now, or a bit younger. I’ve never had dreams that seem as though they’re teenagers.”  
  
“And your wife?” Eaglethorpe’s voice was very gentle, as though he understood how much pain the asking would give Harry. “Have you ever dreamed of her, Mr. Potter?”  
  
“No,” Harry said, and shook his head a little. “Nor Draco’s wife, Marian.”  
  
Eaglethorpe asked him to describe the dreams again, which Harry dutifully did. Then the wizard sat back behind his desk and frowned thoughtfully. When he spoke, it was slow, as though he were testing his own words.  
  
“This week, Mr. Potter, I’d like you to concentrate on thinking about other men,” he said. “I know that you can’t induce dreams—those are a product of the curse—but look at other men, and think about their level of attractiveness.”  
  
“How will  _that_  help?” Harry demanded, feeling his face flush again. It felt like treachery to both Draco and Ginny.  
  
 _No, just to Ginny_ , he thought in determination, and shoved away that part of himself that would connect Draco to sex.  
  
“I am attempting to see whether you find men in general handsome, or only Mr. Malfoy,” said Eaglethorpe.  
  
Harry let out a deep breath.  _Of course_. That was one of the reasons that he had come to therapy in the first place, after all. He nodded. “All right. I’ll do it.”  
  
Eaglethorpe gave him a sad glance, and Harry sat up in his chair. “You know something,” he said. “What do you know?”  
  
“I do not wish to prejudice your natural conclusions by explaining what I  _think_  I know at this time,” the older wizard said. “I believe I’m right, but I may be wrong. I want one more week to think about it, and one more conversation with you to gather data. I promise, Mr. Potter, you shall hear what I suspect at the end of our next session.”  
  
With that, Harry had to be content, and he said his farewells and left the therapist’s office to go home. He hoped Ginny would already have left for practice, and that Molly would depart when Harry showed up, so that he could spend some time alone with the children.  
  
 _You want to avoid her._  
  
Harry hunched his shoulders.  _Just a little while. Just until the worst of the guilt blows over._  
  
His conscience did not answer. Harry could feel its silent condemnation anyway.  
  
He gave a dry little chuckle, thinking of the way that the magic and Draco were pulling him one way, and how Ginny and the marriage vows were pulling him another.  
  
 _I’m not exactly pleasing anyone right now._  
  
There was a follow-up to that sentence he ignored as carefully as possible, because he understood it was dangerous—more dangerous than wanting to look at Draco.  
  
 _Including myself._


	21. Councils of War

“What do you have for me?”  
  
Draco was sitting comfortably in the chair in front of his fireplace, for once. Millicent was the one leaning through the green flames, extending a sheaf of papers in a heavy leather case to him. Draco accepted and flipped through them, searching for something understandable in a complicated maze of legal writing, while Millicent talked.  
  
“I tracked the ownership of the manor where you were kept,” she said. “It’s called Necessity House now, though it was Brownburn Oaks at the turn of the century. The woman who owned it was called Lenore Banks—“  
  
“Was?” Draco lifted his head, prepared to hear a tangled tale of false names and pseudonyms. He was almost disappointed when Millicent gave him a playful glance and shook her head.  
  
“She’s dead,” she said. “Truly dead. We found a witness statement from several wizards who saw her death in a broom accident. The house was left to her younger sister, Angelica, who apparently lives out of the country. Perhaps in Bulgaria, since she apparently sent her children to Durmstrang. There was correspondence to that effect between her and Lenore.” Millicent half-closed her eyes, as if reciting from her own remembered summary of events. She probably was, Draco had to admit. Millicent had always had a good memory, which had assisted her with incantations and theoretical exams but interfered when she needed to come up with new facts and guesses on her own. “There’s no sign that Angelica is tied to Salazar’s Snakes, but I’ll keep looking for that.”  
  
“Thank you, Millicent.” Draco held up the leather case of papers. “Even as little as you’ve found is a great help.”  
  
“Prat,” said Millicent, but her eyes were shining. “We’ll track them, Draco, never fear.”  
  
“I’m not  _afraid_ —“ Draco began, but then Millicent was gone from the flames, with a shout that sounded suspiciously like, “Shut up, Blaise, and stop whinging!” The Floo connection went dead a moment later, and Draco was not surprised to find it blocked when he tried it again. If he were Millicent, he wouldn’t trust himself with unguarded access to his house just yet, either.  
  
He set down to sort through the mess of papers, and lost more than an hour in doing so. At least, it was afternoon when he looked up at the sudden knock of a beak against the window, and recognized a barn owl hovering outside the glass with an envelope clutched in its talons. Draco took out his wand and checked it over carefully for hexes and curses before he admitted the owl. He couldn‘t find any, but he didn’t relax until he recognized the signature on the envelope.  
  
Even as he opened the letter, however, he wondered why Harry had sent an owl instead of Flooing or coming himself. Draco would have greatly preferred either option. His life-debt scars tingled at the mere thought of seeing Harry.  
  
The letter was harsh, almost impersonal. Draco blinked, then shrugged. He supposed that Harry could be trying to recover some distance after their closeness of the other day. Or perhaps he thought that not coming into personal contact with Draco would slow the progress of the magic and their mutual life-debts.  
  
 _Poor fool.  
  
Dear Draco:  
  
Hermione has spoken to Shacklebolt and a few of the other officials in the Ministry, and they agree that the threat from the pure-blood and Muggleborn extremists is serious. They’d like you to attend their council of war, since you have important information on these groups and you’re the only victim of a framing attempt that we know about for certain. The other times have either been rumors or there was more convincing evidence in the murders, Hermione said, so the cases have already been brought to trial. I’ll meet you at the Manor at four and escort you to the Ministry. I don’t think that we want to trust you to the Aurors, just yet.  
  
See you soon,   
Harry._  
  
Draco felt a small smile play on his lips.  _He’s not trying to avoid me at all, then. He probably volunteered for the duty of escorting me. But he saw no need to come right now since he’ll see me later_.  
  
He quilled a reply and sent it on with the owl, though that probably wasn’t necessary. He latched his hands together behind his head and watched thoughtfully as the owl flew, though.  
  
 _Didn’t Harry used to have a snowy owl? Beautiful bird. It must have died or wandered off. I should get him one._  
  
*  
  
Harry had thought he’d prepared himself for seeing Draco again, now that he knew the true source of the tension between them, but no, his smile was still shock-inducing and his blond hair, now worn pressed back as if he didn’t care who saw the silver scar on his forehead, made Harry want to touch it. He swallowed and looked away, even as he told himself sternly that he was just obeying Eaglethorpe’s directive. He was looking at men and seeing if he found them attractive.  
  
 _Yes, but he said nothing about what to do when I found them_  too damn  _attractive_ , Harry groused to himself.  
  
“We’re Apparating to the Ministry, I presume?” Draco asked. He’d met Harry at the iron gates at the end of the gardens, and he turned now and cast a spell on the wards that shimmered green about them for a moment before it disappeared. Harry assumed it was magic that would tell him if someone tried to enter the house or disrupt the Manor’s protections while he was away.  
  
“Yes,” Harry said, and couldn’t resist smiling when Draco turned and looked at him inquisitively. He wouldn’t let what had happened yesterday change things too much between them, he told himself sternly. That would just convince Draco that he  _wanted_  the sexual relationship, or something equally ridiculous. Harry wouldn’t lead Draco on like that, since he couldn’t fairly return the feelings. “We’re to enter through the disused telephone box. You’ve been that way before?”  
  
“Not in years,” said Draco, with a grimace both tired and rueful, reminding Harry how few times in the past decade he’d left the Manor. “I don’t want to risk missing my mark and Splinching myself. Care to help me with a Side-Along?” He held out his arm, and crooked it invitingly for Harry’s elbow.  
  
Harry didn’t see much to do but step closer to him. Draco’s body warmth surrounded him at once, as if it were an aura of magic in and of itself. Harry licked his lips, and Draco’s eyes softened in something that might have been amusement. Harry  _hoped_  it was amusement. Then he wouldn’t have to think that Draco shared the feathery awareness beating through him like a second pulse.  
  
“Hang on,” he said, drawing Draco slightly towards him. “I’m good enough at Side-Alongs not to Splinch you, but I’m by no means an expert. Hermione is,” he added, in the futile hope that Draco would want to talk about her.  
  
“Is there anything Granger isn’t an expert in?” Draco said, but it was light and teasing instead of a true complaint. He stepped forwards and leaned against Harry’s side, curling his other arm around Harry’s neck.  
  
Harry realized he could look straight into Draco’s eyes, and that he could already feel a flush of excitement racing through his body, which would almost certainly cause an inappropriate reaction any moment.  
  
He looked away, and concentrated on picturing the front entrance of the Ministry with all his might. Draco’s arms tightened reflexively around him, and the darkness and rush of Apparition seized them. Harry was glad when he felt concrete beneath his boots, and then the light returned and revealed the telephone box.  
  
Draco was slow to let go of him. He was breathing fast, and Harry winced, wondering suddenly just how often Draco had really trusted his life to someone else like that.  
  
God, the way his chest moved—  
  
Harry closed his eyes.  _I am not getting turned on by someone’s breathing_ , he repeated to himself, so many times that he nearly blurted it aloud when Draco said something. He blinked his eyes open, shaking his head rapidly, and stared at Draco’s raised eyebrow. “What?” he asked, weakly and stupidly, he thought.  
  
“Is it the best idea,” Draco asked, canting his head towards the telephone box, “to tell it we’re here to save the wizarding world?”  
  
“You might as well,” Harry said, and tried to relax. He disliked the constant feeling of Draco’s  _presence_  he had—not just his warmth, not just his breathing, but an attunement to him, as though he would know in a moment when any foreign influence or new emotion passed over Draco.  _This is unnatural. I have a wife_. “It’ll give you a badge anyway.”  
  
*  
  
By the time they reached the room high on the first floor of the Ministry, behind the Head Auror’s office, that had been designated for the meeting of their group, Draco was torn between laughter and an overwhelming awe that Harry had not yet attacked him out of sheer sexual frustration. The man was  _so_  easily manipulated.  
  
Draco hadn’t even really needed the Side-Along Apparition. He had constantly but subtly brushed against Harry as they made their way through the Ministry’s Atrium and then up on the lifts, and Harry turned towards him each time, straining against what looked like self-imposed limits. (Or perhaps wife-imposed limits; Draco only knew that _he_  hadn’t put them there). When they reached the room, paneled in dark wood, occupied by a round table, and dominated by a window that showed an enchanted view of the Thames, Draco made for an empty chair near the head of the table without comment. Though both his best friends sat in other places, Harry followed him, and sat down next to him, and arranged his chair facing towards the door so that he could shield Draco from any threat that came through it.  
  
And only then did he seem to realize what he was doing, and he blushed.  
  
Draco fought down his smile. Hermione Granger was there, and he thought she would probably know what he was doing to her friend, and  _not_  approve. He settled for snaking a hand through the arms of his chair, out of sight of any of the important personages in the room, and running a slow finger down Harry’s side. He did it firmly enough not to tickle, but lightly enough that Harry seemed to subconsciously feel the touch.  
  
Harry’s eyelids drifted half-shut, and he dropped a guarded tension he’d been carrying with him ever since they met at the garden gates. His shivers were small, and soft, and regular as Draco repeated the motion over and over.  
  
They were not shivers of cold, Draco knew, or of panic. The faintest flush of arousal touched Harry’s cheeks.  
  
 _He’s mine,_  Draco thought, and drew a lazy letter M on Harry’s flank.  _He just doesn’t realize it yet. But he still has to make the first move. I don’t think that should be very long, now._  
  
“We have serious affairs to discuss,” said the Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, drawing Draco’s attention to him. “Should we ignore a piece of information yet in our possession or underestimate the seriousness of our enemies, we risk plunging the wizarding world into its third war in thirty years—one we may lose, this time. Please pay attention.”  
  
Draco did, but he only stilled his hand and left it resting on Harry’s side, rather than removing it altogether. He hadn’t missed the signs of relaxation in Harry’s expression. A jumpy Harry Potter was not  _quite_  as bad as a third wizarding war, but it stood no chance of helping them.  
  
*  
  
Harry couldn’t bring himself to regret the fact that Draco was touching him in front of an entire room of people.  
  
Well, not quite in  _front_  of them. But if someone looked under the table, they would notice that Draco’s hand was not curled tamely in the folds of his own robes.  
  
At least it wasn’t between his legs—  
  
Harry felt himself begin to harden at the mere thought, and pushed it away with a small, furious moan. Yes, all right, so Eaglethorpe was right about one thing: he  _could_  be attracted to a man. Now he should think about something else.  
  
It was too bad there was no one in the room suitable for him to practice on, he thought with mordant humor. Hermione occupied the seat next to Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister, with Ron beside her, followed by several other members of the Blood Reparations Department and several Aurors who regularly worked with them. They could be trusted, Harry knew, and Hermione would have vetted their loyalty again before he and Draco arrived, as well as their feelings towards the Malfoy family and the Savior of the Wizarding World. Then came Harry and Draco, and beyond them were the other high-ranking Ministry officials involved in this: Linden Vance, a pale, whipcord wizard who was the Head Auror; and Fatima Sorrel, a Pakistani witch who currently ran the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Her face was tense and still. Harry sat up, and thoughts of his own personal crises dropped further and further away. Vance had no sense of humor and was always prone to take things over-seriously, but when Sorrel couldn’t at least muster a level glare and an even tone to her voice, things were bad.  
  
Kingsley nodded to Hermione. She glanced down at the notes in front of her, though Harry was well-aware she didn’t need them.  
  
She didn’t seem to see any need to soften her news. “We’ve identified at least five extremist groups working together on this one,” she said. “For the pure-bloods, Salazar’s Snakes and the Knights of Walpurgis—“  
  
“Death Eaters?” Harry couldn’t help asking. He’d studied the early history of Death Eaters after the Second War, and he knew they had had that name at one time.  
  
Hermione gave a short laugh. Anger had carved those lines around her eyes, Harry thought as he watched her, not weariness alone. And why shouldn’t she be angry? She was fighting people who wanted her  _not to exist_. If his mother had still been alive, Harry knew he would have felt the same kind of anger. He hoped that Lily would have been in the forefront of those who wanted to repair the breach in the wizarding world, too.  
  
“They wish,” she said. “But no, they’re a new organization that began two years ago and adopted the name.” She moved the top piece of parchment. “They claim credit for ten murders, but we’ve only found evidence linking them to one. Their main activity seems to be spreading rumors and trying to chase Muggleborns out of top positions in the Ministry and away from being professors at Hogwarts.”  
  
Harry nodded. That could be quite destructive enough, given the unstable balance between the factions Hermione had described to him.  
  
“Any sign of the Blood Dancers?” Vance asked, naming a pure-blood organization that had been notoriously violent in the five years immediately following Voldemort’s fall.  
  
Hermione shook her head. “Either they’ve been disbanded at last, or these groups thought they were too unstable to approach.  
  
“For the Muggleborn side, we have the Openers and the Radiant Lifeway.”  
  
Harry grimaced. The Openers were an organization that used reasonable rhetoric—until you listened closely and realized they were demanding an end to  _all_  pure-blood institutions and traditions, even ones as harmless as the maintenance of family crests. The Radiant Lifeway was something different again, a group that claimed to have discovered “Light” magic to combat the Dark Arts. From what Hermione had told Harry, they were dangerously near a religious cult, and some of them had even said they’d been contacted by the spirit of Albus Dumbledore, who had aided them with their Light “rituals.”  
  
“And yes,” Hermione went on, when Harry glanced at her, “they’re continuing their claims that Dumbledore would approve of them. And now they say they’ve seen him walking around, still alive, in the Forbidden Forest and near his tomb.”  
  
“Wankers,” Draco said under his breath, giving Harry an abundance of unfortunate images. He grimaced and bit the inside of his cheek. He  _had_  to stop thinking about sex so much. Maybe Ginny had been right in what she said that morning, that he was having a crisis that usually happened to older wizards a bit young and needed to spend time with his children and away from Draco until he stopped tormenting himself with  _stupid_  visions of what could never be.  
  
“You said five groups,” Sorrel reminded Hermione, leaning forwards. “The fifth one? Pure-blood or Muggleborn?”  
  
Hermione closed her eyes. Harry suspected that besides him only Ron, of those at the table, knew her well enough to realize that that meant she was scared. Ron’s hand shifted about, and he would have caught Hermione’s wrist beneath the table, no doubt, and given it a comforting squeeze. Harry smiled slightly. At least someone here could get past Hermione’s considerable defenses.  
  
“We don’t know,” Hermione said.  
  
“ _How_  can you not know?” Sorrel had risen slightly to her feet. The scar on the side of her face stood out with some vehemence; a Dark wizard had come at her with his hand afire, from what Harry had heard, and planted it on her cheek before Sorrel had managed to slice his head off with the Decapitating Curse. “They reveal their allegiance at once, don’t they?”  
  
“Not this time,” said Hermione grimly, and opened her eyes. Harry saw her turn slightly to the side, and knew she would have returned Ron’s hand to his lap. He wished she would have kept it. She needed more comfort than she allowed herself to receive, some—no, most of the time. “This group is our major enemy,” she said levelly. “We have some evidence that they started this entire thing—but nearly no information on who makes them up, or what they call themselves. Our contacts were barely talking. They seemed to assume that  _this_  group of people might actually have the power to punish them if they did, which hasn’t been the case in the past. And they seem to have a leader who’s extremely good at inspiring loyalty, so some of the contacts we talked to were true believers.”  
  
“What do we know about him?” Kingsley asked.  
  
“Her,” Hermione corrected, with a slight frown in Kingsley’s direction, as if to say that he shouldn’t automatically assume a powerful, dangerous wizard was male. “Not much. She speaks well. She knows spells that can make a letter dissolve from a distance, and apparently she knows enough mind magic to control the thoughts of her victims without resorting to the Imperius Curse. She hides her followers in sanctuaries that no one can track down. There are even rumors that she’s tamed a dragon and ridden it, but that’s nonsense. Dragons cannot be domesticated.”  
  
“Has she a name?” Sorrel asked. At least she’d sat down again, Harry noted.  
  
“The Laughing Lady, the Scarred Lady, the Masked Lady.” Hermione gave a weary shrug. “She always wears a mask, and everyone claims not to know what’s under it. Whether that’s true or just the power of her showmanship, who can say?”  
  
She sat up suddenly, and spoke in a quiet, firm voice, as though to remind them that she was still formidable, however much the pressure of this discovery had worn her down. “Regardless of what her true name is or what she’s like, I think she’s our true foe. And I think there can be no doubt, based on the other information the Blood Reparations Department has discovered, of what she and her followers want. It’s to be all-out war, with the pure-bloods and the Muggleborns struggling to assert the superiority of their kind over the ashes.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  
  
He had known this was coming. He had known where his place would be if it did: fighting in the front ranks to protect his ideals and his children and the world he’d already died for once, beside Hermione and Ron.  
  
A finger poked him in the side, and Harry turned his head, startled, and glanced into gray eyes.  
  
He had to smile when he saw the determination burning in them.  _And Draco, too, it seems._  
  
*  
  
Draco nodded sharply when he saw Harry smiling at him. That was better. He had hated the war-weary expression that came over Harry’s face. Someone who was only twenty-eight shouldn’t look that old, even if he was a veteran of one war and the person directly responsible for ending another.  
  
Into the silence that followed Granger’s declaration, he said, “I think I may have discovered another alias of the Masked Lady.”  
  
Heads swiveled towards him, and Vance, the Head Auror, said in tones like cut diamonds, “Well?”  
  
Draco drew out the leather case of papers and explained what Millicent had told him. By the end of his short speech, Granger had dragged the letters from Angelica to Lenore Banks across the table and was comparing them with another piece of parchment from her file. Then she looked up, eyes dilated with excitement, and actually _smiled_  at him. Draco fought to keep his jaw from sagging. Malfoys had more dignity than to be stunned just because Mudbloods who had hated them for most of their lives smiled at them.  
  
“This is her handwriting,” she said. “Or, at least, the same disguised handwriting that she used for other letters. She’s the one who warned the Salazar’s Snakes about you and Harry going to Diagon Alley, Malfoy. _Thank_  you.”  
  
“So we should start looking in Bulgaria?” The hefty Auror who spoke, seated next to Weasley, sounded relieved to have a direction.  
  
“Looking  _towards_  it, anyway,” said Granger absently, rifling quickly through the papers she held. “I doubt she’s there anymore, or that she ever was. But she may have left traces behind. She probably went there to recruit, at least, since there were so many potential Dark wizards at Durmstrang.”  
  
Draco felt compelled to point out a failure of her logic there. She probably wouldn’t thank him for it, but he didn’t feel the need to be thanked for such a service to the British wizarding public. “And why would they, Dark or not, care about a war in the British wizarding world, Granger?”  
  
She glanced up at him, but it was Weasley who answered. “Because the Aurors have finally connected some rumors of international troubles with these groups, Malfoy,” he said tightly. “And the Masked Lady is offering help to Bulgarian pure-bloods, too. If they can manage it in Britain, they’ll serve as an inspiration to those who might want to start a war of hatred in other countries. The prejudice towards Muggleborns is even worse there than it is here.”  
  
Draco grunted noncommittally. He wanted to remind Weasley that Bulgaria and other countries in Eastern Europe had never had a wizard like Dumbledore, both powerful and popular, and willing to lend his voice to the cause of peace. But if the idiot didn’t know his history already, despite being pure-blood himself, Draco saw no reason to help him. He didn’t have as much influence on the direction of the future war as Granger did.  
  
“There’s one more thing,” said Granger. “Almost the only thing we could learn for certain besides the Masked Lady’s false names and that she wields a vast amount of power in the underground community. They want you dead, since they know that you won’t be with them, Harry.”  
  
For a bizarre moment, Draco had thought she was addressing him, but of course the Malfoy name no longer carried the prestige it once did. And if the Savior of the Wizarding World would not be their pawn, they would have to kill him.  
  
Draco wondered idly if Harry was even aware of what respect his name commanded. It wasn’t all about silly witches dashing up to him in the middle of Diagon Alley and begging for photos and autographs. The story of what he’d done for them at Hogwarts against the Dark Lord had spread. Dying to ensure their safety…well, that kind of self-sacrifice could prompt undying trust in return. There were probably at least a thousand people willing to kill for him.  
  
“That’s obvious, Hermione.” Harry sounded irritated. Draco slid the finger up and down his side again, and the muscles quivered and relaxed beneath his touch.  
  
“You don’t understand, Harry.” Granger’s eyes were serious. Draco appreciated that. “The threat is very real. I’ve discussed this with Kingsley and Linden and Fatima already, and they agree that you should have bodyguards.”  
  
Harry snorted and folded his arms. “Really? Drawing them from where? The Blood Reparations Department, which is already struggling to cope with everything they’ll need to do when this war properly begins? The Aurors, who might have been infiltrated, and where some people still distrust me for not becoming an Auror myself? Random volunteers, any of whom could be working for this Masked Lady? No, Hermione. I’ll protect myself. I have to.”  
  
“Don’t be an idiot, Harry,” Draco said, before Granger could reply. Harry turned on him in outrage; Draco sat firm, and met his eyes. “You’re more of a target than anyone here, excepting Granger and the Minister. You need this protection, and I’m going to ask you to accept it.”  
  
“You don’t have the power to  _command_  me to accept it,” Harry hissed. Draco knew he was talking about the life-debts, though no one else there would. At least Harry had learned some discretion.  
  
“I know that,” said Draco. “I’m just asking you, and asking you to consider whether you can honestly afford to refuse guards.”  
  
“Provide me with someone trustworthy, and I’ll consider it,” Harry retorted.  
  
“Well,” Draco said, “I’d be happy to take up the post myself.” He quite enjoyed the shocked looks that flew at him from around the room.  
  
He didn’t expect the flare of heat in Harry’s eyes.  
  
*  
  
Harry should not have focused on the  _body_  part of bodyguard. He knew he shouldn’t have. It was unworthy of both of them. He glanced away from Draco with a quick breath, focused on Hermione, and said, “Yes. Fine. All right. Choose whom you think you can trust, and then we’ll discuss the arrangements.”  
  
He waited impatiently for the end of the meeting. He didn’t dare look at Draco again, and he leaned casually away from his hand when Draco tried to reestablish that contact. Friendship was one thing, and so were involuntary sexual thoughts. But he couldn’t let them interfere when he needed to be professional.  
  
Besides, he had something to ask Hermione when the meeting was done and she could legitimately concentrate on other things. If anyone would know a way out of the net the life-debts were weaving around him and Draco, she would.  
  
 _It’s for Draco’s sake as well as mine_ , he told himself, several times, when his attunement to the other man made him aware of Draco coughing or shifting in his chair or sighing under his breath.  _What kind of lover can I be for him, when I can’t even kiss him with desire because my marriage vows would object? We can’t follow the road that he thinks the life-debts are preparing for us, and that’s all. It’s very simple.  
  
And of course I’m loyal to Ginny, too._  
  
He refused to give up and let the life-debts have their way, any more than he would let the Masked Lady and her allies have the wizarding world. He had never given up in his life. Surrendering to pleasure was just as stupid, just as undignified and shameful, as surrendering to pain, and Harry was disgusted with himself for being tempted.  
  
 _It will not happen. I swear it._


	22. First Barrage

“And that’s as much as I know,” Harry said, sitting back with a little sigh against the chair in Hermione’s office. He glanced in several directions, but there was only one visible change to the room since he had visited Hermione to acquire the Dreamless Sleep potion: a large map of wizarding Britain, stuck to the far wall. Areas highlighted in red were mostly around London and included those places most in danger from a concerted attack by their enemies, Harry suspected. Similar red areas glowed around Hogwarts and Hogsmeade in Scotland, and there was a brilliant red speck in Wiltshire.  
  
He was more than happy to look at the map while he waited for Hermione to decide on what he’d told her about the life-debts and the odd, shifting nature of the magic that connected him to Draco. Hermione’s face had started to change halfway through the recitation, and Harry suspected she was angry at him. He couldn’t really blame her. Not only her long friendship with Ginny but the fact that he was quite sure she’d never considered cheating on Ron would be against him.  
  
“You’re sure it’s life-debts?” Hermione asked in a quiet voice. “Not anything else that might form the basis of this?”  
  
Harry gave her a cautious look. That was a more neutral question than he’d thought she’d begin with. Of course, they were  _supposed_  to be discussing the choice of bodyguards who would accompany him everywhere but inside his home and Malfoy Manor—reluctantly, Hermione had agreed that even people chosen from the ranks of the Blood Reparations Department would have too many negative feelings towards Draco—and Draco was waiting for them to be done with it in the corridor outside. Maybe she didn’t want to start screaming and alert him that something was wrong, Harry thought.  
  
“Yes,” Harry said. “Everything that Draco uncovered about that makes sense. If it’s something else, it would have to be something that fits all the parameters of life-debts but  _also_  has escaped any kind of description in books of magic. Draco has researched this pretty thoroughly.”  
  
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. Then she said, “The reason I asked was because the only way life-debts can work is by willingness.”  
  
Harry frowned. “They work whether or not someone wants to be saved, I thought.”  
  
“Not that.” Hermione shook her head, still not looking at him. “The effects Malfoy described, where the debts are trying to draw you closer together and make you decide that only the gift of yourself is sufficient to pay them off… _that_  works by willingness. I’ve studied the history of life-debts—“  
  
 _Of course_ , Harry thought. If there was something Hermione hadn’t studied, he didn’t know what it was. She had even acquired something of an expertise on mysterious pure-blood traditions, since when she became Head of the Blood Reparations Department she had needed to know if the pure-bloods they were trying to soften could claim a traditional reason for deferring contact with Muggleborns.  
  
“And the only way that such a gift was ever made was sheer willingness. No one else could force another wizard into it. No one could  _ask_  for it, even; if it happened, it was considered to be in shockingly bad taste, and a wizard who tried to make the gift of himself without wanting to would simply fail to dissolve the life-debts.” Hermione opened her eyes at last, and her look cut through him. “So the only way this will ever  _change_  is if you decide that you’re willing to give yourself to him.”  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure I understand.”  
  
“The magic can’t force you into this, Harry,” Hermione said. “Malfoy can’t force you into this. No one but you can decide to make that sacrifice.” She leaned over the desk. “That means that as long as you do what you’re  _supposed to do_ , and keep on loving and being faithful to Ginny, then you’re in no danger.”  
  
Harry looked down at his lap.  
  
“Why is it so hard?” Hermione asked, in the tone of a kind friend who’d been rebuffed by someone she was trying to offer genuinely good advice to. Harry clenched his jaw.  _That’s what she is. She’s right and I’m wrong, and she’s making sure I know it_. “What is so damn attractive about him that you’re willing to give up honor and turn your back on your marriage vows? Because nothing’s worth that, Harry. Would you really want your children to grow up unhappy? And what about Ginny? Does she deserve to suffer because you’ve got a few urges that she might not be able to satisfy?”  
  
“No,” Harry said. “She doesn’t. And neither do the children, of course.”  
  
“So  _don’t want Malfoy_ ,” Hermione said. “And don’t even consider making him the gift of you. The life-debts aren’t actively dangerous, from what you told me. Even the way the fifth one put Malfoy’s life in danger only did it to establish a connection between you. There would have been no point served if he died. Concentrate on the war instead, which  _can_  endanger you.” She stared at him until Harry looked up again. “And I’d suggest that you spend less time with him, too, and more time with Ginny. I think you need to be reminded just how wonderful she really is.”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry said, and no matter how he tried he could not keep the sarcasm out of his tone, “I do.”  
  
Hermione’s face tightened. She said, “Keep on taking the Dreamless Sleep, as much of it as is safe. Spend more time with your wife. Spend more time with your children.” She hesitated, then added, “Have you and Ginny slept together much recently?”  
  
His face hurt with the blush that overtook it then. Harry looked away and muttered, “No.”  
  
“Well, then, that might be part of the problem.” Hermione sounded relieved. “If you’re experiencing sexual attraction to Malfoy, it’s probably just because you haven’t received  _any_  satisfaction at all, wouldn’t you say?”  
  
Harry opened his mouth to tell her that the attraction he felt for Draco was nothing like what he’d felt for Ginny, even during those first passionate months of marriage when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and then shut his mouth again. Why should he tell her that? She would just dismiss it anyway. She was the one who, because she’d never wanted anyone but Ron, thought that it was impossible for one half of a happily married couple to want anyone else, either.  
  
But she was right in at least one respect. What Harry felt  _was_  wrong. He should stop feeling it if he could, and he should avoid feeding it at all costs. He couldn’t control his feelings, but he could control his actions.  
  
He would.  
  
“Who are my bodyguards going to be?” he asked, to change the subject, and then went with Hermione over the names and abilities of each one.  
  
In the end he chose two pure-blood witches whom he’d sometimes worked with on Blood Reparations cases—Timolea Wesley, a distant relative of the Weasley family whose great-grandfather had changed the spelling of their name, and Athena Mockingbird—and a Muggleborn wizard who was engaged to Timolea, Erasmus Grant. They’d meet him when he stepped outside the office, and keep up the protection until the moment that he was safely behind his own wards again.  
  
Harry rose to his feet, thanking Hermione for everything. She spent a moment looking up at him pensively, opened her mouth as if to offer more advice, and then shut it with a snap and shook her head.   
  
“Never mind, Harry,” she said softly. “I think you’ll see how right I am in a few more months, and how good it would have been if you had stayed away from Malfoy.”  
  
Harry didn’t answer. He stepped out of the office, greeted Timolea, Athena, and Erasmus, and avoided Draco’s gaze as much as possible. He also asked Athena to accompany Draco back to the Manor, just so Draco wouldn’t have an excuse to ask Harry to perform another Side-Along Apparition. It was occurring to Harry now just how many opportunities Draco had taken to touch him in the past few hours, and that he probably hadn’t needed help Apparating or recalling the entrance to the Ministry at all.  
  
He couldn’t control his feelings, but he could control his actions, and at the moment, he thought the wisest course was to be friendly but distant from Draco.  
  
Draco gave him a look just before he vanished in Athena’s company to show that he was less than impressed. He also reached out and deliberately squeezed Harry’s wrist, his hand lingering a bit longer than was comfortable.  
  
Harry turned miserably away, not least because that brief brush of flesh had been enough to arouse him again.  
  
But he had to think of his wife, his family, and Draco’s future. Draco would want to find another lover, since his marriage vows allowed for it and since he probably wouldn’t want to reconcile with Marian even if he saw her alive again.  
  
Harry couldn’t be that lover. He couldn’t help Draco there. It was best if they just both accepted the quiet stillbirth of the possible sexual dimension of their relationship.  
  
Harry  _wanted_  more than that. But that wasn’t right. And he had to remember to do what was right.  
  
*  
  
Draco gave a disgruntled sigh and attempted to read through the  _Daily Prophet_  again, though, since the “finest writers” at the paper were oblivious of political events of any import, it of course carried nothing about the war. There were a few articles wondering why Draco Malfoy hadn’t been arrested for murder yet, but even they were less numerous and more subdued than they had been. The  _Daily Prophet_  was again reduced to reporting on scandals in the Ministry and trying to follow Harry about.  
  
 _Harry._  
  
Did he  _really_  think Draco was above casting spells that allowed him to listen at doorways, when he couldn’t use the wards in the Manor to eavesdrop? And did he  _really_ think that Granger was cautious enough and good enough to catch any possible magic he used?  
  
She wasn’t and she hadn’t, and so Draco knew exactly why Harry had avoided his eyes when he stepped out of the office, and looked torn between staying and pulling back when Draco caught his hand.  
  
Granger was a fool. People couldn’t control their feelings, and Harry trying to discourage his desire would only make it grow. Harry had been a Gryffindor. Fear wasn’t natural to him, and Draco understood how to manipulate his natural inclinations towards fearlessness and the urge to protect other people.  
  
Much better than his wife did, apparently.  
  
The only thing out of that entire conversation that had cheered him, and somewhat removed the taste of Granger’s sanctimonious prattle about home and family from his mouth, was that Harry and his Weasley hadn’t slept together for some time. Perhaps his dreams had put her off, Draco thought hopefully.  
  
He himself had had the dreams multiple times per night since the day Harry had saved his life, as if the magic were determined that he should know that vision of the other possible life as well as Harry did. He recognized a few of the more sexual ones from Harry’s descriptions. And he had had the one about the Portkey that deposited them in South America, too.  
  
They remained with him even when he was awake, sharp and etched on his mind as though someone had cut them in a pane of glass with the tip of a diamond. Even if Draco’s own marriage vows had been stricter, he thought he would have succumbed to the quite distinct hunger that had grown in him for an equal  _partner_  like that, someone he could share trouble and danger as well as peaceful sunlit afternoons with.  
  
Perhaps someone else would be even more perfect for him, but Draco didn’t intend to waste trouble and effort trying to find him or her. He wanted Harry. He was going to have him. He was—  
  
A scream rang into the dining room. Draco was on his feet in instants, his heart beating so hard that his head hurt. His mother looked up more warily from the end of the table, where she’d been reading her own copy of the newspaper, and drew her wand with a small silken sound he wouldn’t have recognized if he hadn’t heard it for months and months during the Dark Lord’s occupation of the Manor.  
  
The scream repeated itself, and Draco managed to identify it this time. Not Scorpius, as he’d been half-afraid, but the cry of a house-elf.  
  
Still, this did not sound like the distress that accompanied the discovery of a dirty room. Draco began to edge his way towards the far door. His mother came behind him, her steps cautious but her eyes so bright that Draco thought she was good a warrior as any to have at his back.  
  
Something heavy and dark red lashed down the corridor at him.  
  
Draco had his wand raised and a Shield Charm up before he realized what he was doing. His studies of defensive magic, conducted since Harry had managed to rouse him to consciousness of the war, had sharpened his reflexes more than he realized. He had time, as the attacking thing struck the Shield Charm and slid down it in a liquid mess, to study and recognize it.  
  
It was blood. And when it picked itself up and faced him again, it had brilliant green eyes, the sharp color of poison, located in the upper ridge of what could have been a head, and Draco knew what it was.  
  
A Blood Hydra. It was a creature that could be created with the right incantations from any large wound, and which was incredibly hard to kill. The heads could be cut off, but it would sprout two heads in the place of each cut one, and it could create more and more until all the liquid supporting it was gone.  
  
The only thing Draco wondered was how it could have got inside the wards, and then the answer came to him and he cursed aloud.  
  
 _I should have realized Marian was probably performing blood magic with the incantations she was doing_. The blood had vanished from her room, and Draco had thought it thoroughly cleaned up. If the Blood Hydra spell was already in effect, though, it would have simply shrunk into a corner and then resurrected itself when commanded to do so.  
  
 _I am going to kill you, Marian, wherever you are_ , Draco thought, and bared his teeth at the creature.  
  
A movement back in the coils alerted him. He looked up, and saw Scorpius’s terrified face, swinging above the serpent’s red, reared back. Blood wrapped his small body and streaked his blond hair.  
  
Draco was still staring at his son when the hydra’s nearest head struck at him, enough force behind it to shatter the Shield Charm.  
  
*  
  
Harry sighed and cleaned cornflakes out of Al’s hair with a swift spell. James was responsible for their being there, of course. He was trying to look innocent at the moment, but since Harry had turned around just as he launched them at his brother, there wasn’t much chance of  _that._  
  
“James,” Harry began, hating the weary tone in his own voice. But  _really_. “How many times have we told you not to throw food at your brother?”  
  
Ginny, currently cleaning up a bubble of milk from Lily’s face, looked up and nodded in support.  
  
“Lots,” James said.  
  
“Then why did you do it?” Harry said, and flicked his wand again to remove a trickle of milk from Al’s cheek. His smaller son was holding on to a brave face, but his quivering lower lip said that wouldn’t last long.  
  
“Because he looks so  _stupid_ ,” James said, and waved his hand at Al. “ _Look_  at him. Stupid face, stupid hair—“ Al’s hair was like Harry’s, black and unmanageable by any normal magic, while James had inherited Ginny’s own smoothness along with her red color.  
  
Al closed his eyes tightly shut, but he had started crying anyway. Harry stepped around the table and picked him up, swinging him back and forth in the vigorous rocking motion that sometimes calmed him. James put a finger in his mouth and watched this, mouthing something that looked like, “Crybaby,” at Al.  
  
“James Sirius Potter,” Harry said, and James’s face changed; he knew Harry was serious whenever he used his full name. “You are going to your room, and you won’t come out until this afternoon.”  
  
“But  _Daaaaad_ ,” James said, stretching the vowel out in the long drawl that was, luckily, the only way he resembled Dudley Dursley as a child. “That’s not  _faaaaair_. Teddy’s coming this afternoon, and he was going to take us on brooms again!”  
  
“Yes, I know,” Harry said. “And maybe next time you’ll think about that before you hurt your brother.”  
  
James stamped his foot. “But he was just standing there, looking  _stupid_ —“  
  
Someone Apparated into the house. Harry jumped before he realized it was Andromeda, who had free access to enter through the wards. She was holding Teddy by one hand. Harry supposed she’d wanted to bring him a little early; sometimes a ten-year-old wizard could be a bit much for an elderly witch living alone.  
  
Then he saw Andromeda’s white face, and folded himself around Al as he stepped closer to her. “What’s wrong?” he asked. He caught a glimpse of James from the corner of his eye, looking hopeful that this might mean he didn’t have to go to his room, and Ginny, folding herself around Lily the same way he was instinctively trying to protect Al. He was glad that they had that much in common at the moment, since they’d had a quiet but intense argument last night about the amount of time he was spending around Draco.  
  
“Read these,” said Andromeda. She held out a sheaf of parchments to him, and shut her eyes. Trickles of tears ran out from under them, but she turned away and tried to busy herself with Teddy—who protested—so he wouldn’t see.  
  
Harry looked through the parchments, expertly balancing Al on one hip and with one arm. They turned out to be letters, and each one was written in the same disguised hand that had sent the warning to Salazar’s Snakes about his and Draco’s presence in Diagon Alley. The things they proclaimed they would do to Andromeda, and to Teddy while she watched…Harry was shaking with rage at the end of them. If they were from the Masked Lady, she had learned the art of personal torture from a finer master than Voldemort.  
  
He lifted his eyes, ready to reassure Andromeda that of course he would do anything he could to protect her and his godson.  
  
And then the attack happened.  
  
Enormous balls of yellow-green gas puffed up from the center of the table, where the  _Daily Prophet_  lay open. Harry reacted so fast he could barely follow his own movements; he drew his wand, cast a spell that knocked James to the floor, and then dived, sheltering Al under his body.  
  
He heard Ginny and Andromeda cry out, but far more terrifying than that were the screams of his children.  
  
Harry felt the gas curl around the edges of his hair. Just that touch of it made his skin crisp and his eyes water and the horrible, tearing impulse to cough start in his chest.  
  
He did not even want to imagine what that gas would do to a three-year-old, or a two-year-old, or a five-month-old baby.  
  
He rolled over on his back, though he had dropped Al and was still sheltering him with his shoulders, because he had to be able to see where the gas was. It had lowered and spread, and now extended lazy tendrils around the table towards James and Andromeda, and further into the house, so they couldn’t run away from it.  
  
His rage boiling inside him, Harry lifted his wand and shouted a spell that he wasn’t supposed to know, a spell that he had got from studying one of the Dark Arts books that Hermione kept in her office purely for research purposes.  
  
*  
  
Draco couldn’t breathe. His eyes watered with the effort of staring, trying to make sure that Scorpius was all right. The Blood Hydra had broken the Shield Charm and knocked him down, and now the nearest head swayed menacingly above him, as though the evil will behind the spell were trying to decide whether it should dive and break his ribs, or savor its own triumph further.  
  
But Draco couldn’t care if he  _did_  die in the next moment. The Blood Hydra had his son.  
  
He had to do something to save Scorpius, but he had no idea what he  _could_  do. The nearest loop of the dark crimson body was pinning his wand and his wand hand to the floor, and so far, it hadn’t done anything to Scorpius. They were all caught in a sharpness beyond fear, waiting for the moment when the tension would break.  
  
A moment later, he realized the Blood Hydra and he himself had made the same mistake: they had forgotten about his mother.  
  
“ _Ardus_!”  
  
The Blood Hydra screamed and thrashed like a living snake as Narcissa’s spell arched past Draco, surrounding it with a corona of white-yellow glare like the light of a desert sun. The Dehydration Curse struck deep into the blood, drying it from the inside out, greedily swallowing and destroying the material it needed to exist.  
  
The weight on Draco’s wand arm vanished.  
  
And when Scorpius, who had been suspended in the midst of the wet coils several feet from the floor, began to drop, he was ready.  
  
“ _Accio_  Scorpius!” Draco shouted. He hadn’t cast a spell with so much force in his life, and the result was that the spell obeyed his unspoken intention as well as his stated one. Instead of yanking his baby boy across the air, the Summoning Charm floated him gently into Draco’s arms. Draco embraced him and bowed his head to rest his cheek on the sweat-matted blond hair, wondering if he’d ever be able to let him go again.  
  
He felt Narcissa’s hand on his shoulder a moment later, and then Scorpius whispered, “Daddy?” And Draco had to blink the tears away.  
  
But not the burning rage that assaulted him now, slow and long-blazing, the desire to kill the person or people who had caused him that moment of fear. The tears might abandon his eyes, and welcome. That rage would never leave him.  
  
*  
  
“ _Spiritus conpello_!”  
  
Harry’s shouted spell gave him control of every molecule of air in the room. He was suddenly intimately aware, in ways he had never wanted to be, of how his wife and Andromeda and the children were breathing. And he could feel the small currents passing around his own hair and in and out through the window and beneath the door.   
  
This spell was considered Dark Arts because it would be easy for a wizard using it to suffocate an enemy without fuss. But Harry had wanted to use it to take control of the air on which the gas drifted, and it let him do that.  
  
The gas drove together into a compact ball at his will, though he could feel the magic that had raised it out of the newspaper in the first place fighting weakly against him. Harry shrieked, a sound of pure frustration and hatred, through clenched teeth, and the magic bowed to his greater force. In moments, every tiny bead of yellow-green smog was whirling together, faster and faster. Harry cast another spell he wasn’t supposed to know, this time nonverbally. In the next moment, the gas had ceased to exist.  
  
He muttered the  _Finite_  next, to release his control of the others’ air, and at once turned to check on Al. Al was crying silently when Harry picked him up, and he clung so hard to his father that it was difficult for Harry to check his nose and mouth at first, so that he could make sure no gas had burrowed into his sinuses. But no, he was well.  
  
When he turned, he realized that Andromeda had already completed a similar check of Teddy, and Ginny nodded at him over the tops of James and Lily’s heads to signify that both were unhurt. She was clutching them tightly enough that James was fussing. Harry couldn’t blame her.  
  
He rose swiftly to his feet, still cradling Al in his arms, and strode into the drawing room. He didn’t consider the immediate consequences of his actions, how it would get him a lecture from Ginny and from Hermione if she knew, because he  _needed to know_.  
  
He lit the logs with a wave of his wand, cast a handful of Floo powder into the flames, and shouted, “Malfoy Manor!”  
  
It took him several minutes to receive an answer, which made him stamp and fret and stroke Al’s back in an attempt to recover a semblance of calm. But then Draco appeared, holding Scorpius close enough that his head also softly entered the flames.  
  
Harry met Draco’s eyes. He knew in an instant that something similar had happened, though not the details, and he knew intimately the killing fury that had eclipsed all of Draco’s other emotions.  
  
He had never shared a look so intense with another human being. Harry felt another bond settle into place between them with a solid click, though it was more like an iron chain than the soft, infinitely flexible connections of the life-debts. They would fight this war together, yes, and now for the same reasons.  
  
“He’s well,” Draco whispered.  
  
“And all’s well here,” said Harry, the tension melting from his shoulders. “We—“  
  
A thundering knock sounded on the door to the house. Harry turned around, wand already held up before him.  
  
He heard Ginny asking a question, and smiled grimly.  _Good girl_. It was probably Ron or Hermione at the door, but she would make sure, first, that it wasn’t someone using Polyjuice, by asking something only the four of them would know.  
  
Ron was in the room a moment later, shaking off windblown bits of leaf, and flecks of soot, and blood.  
  
He answered Harry’s questions with an expressive grimace, and then, “They hit Diagon Alley. Brought down all the force they could, which was—enough. We received a warning just a few minutes before, and so we were able to avert what might have been the worst of it. But—“ He shook his head.  
  
Harry had known Ron Weasley for seventeen years, and he knew something was wrong now. “What is it?” he asked.  
  
Ron shut his eyes. “They hit every shop along the Alley especially hard,” he said. “We need you to come right away. George is dying.”


	23. George

Harry had never known St. Mungo’s could be so silent.  
  
Maybe that was because he had only visited in the past with large groups of people, or with other Blood Reparations agents who had been injured, and the shouting and noise in the latter situations had rather muffled the presence of quiet. Or he had been unconscious, and that made him unable to detect the norm at all.  
  
But now he stood alone in the corridor outside George’s room, staring at the wall, and he noticed. He had arrived after Ginny had—he had made arrangements for Luna to come and stay with the children, first—and when he’d peered through the door, the entire remaining Weasley family was clustered around the bed, including Hermione and Victoire, Bill and Fleur’s daughter. There wasn’t any room for him to slip in without crushing someone, and Ginny, crying silent, frantic tears in Charlie’s arms, didn’t look as if she needed him. He had winced and shut the door, waiting until the moment when he  _was_  needed, or when he had room to enter and pay his respects.  
  
In the meantime, he stared, and thought, and tried to weigh up what all the attacks today said about their enemies. It was hard to think, but at least the attempt gave him something to focus on beyond George’s condition.  
  
One thing Harry knew: this attack must have been long in the planning, for all that the execution of the plans had been swift and horrible. This was not something the Masked Lady could have commanded the moment she knew they were aware of and hunting her. If she could have, they had already lost the war. So Harry chose to believe in hope for the moment.  
  
Could they do something as large again in the near future? Harry doubted it. At the very least, the places where the attack had fallen would be wary now, and they had sprung some traps that had to be long-standing; Draco had had time to tell him about the Blood Hydra and what he suspected of its origins in the moments before Harry shut the Floo connection. And Ron had said that a warning had come to them about the attack on Diagon Alley, which meant that a few of the Masked Lady’s followers might have become uneasy about her methods. If there was a way to persuade them to desert, Hermione would find it. Talking to discontented true believers was one of the usual ways that the Blood Reparations Department got information on the various supremacist groups.  
  
What effect would these attacks have on the tense political climate Hermione had described?  
  
Harry could only guess, but he thought nothing would happen for a day or so. The shock and the terror of the new war would hold people paralyzed that long. And he hoped that he and Hermione could work to alleviate some of that fear before it exploded into rage.  
  
This was the crisis the Blood Reparations Department had been formed to deal with: another huge source of division that might attempt to part the two halves of the wizarding world. Harry had trained for it every minute of every day in the last ten years when he’d sought out self-exiled Muggleborns and asked them to return to the wizarding world, or gone to talk with haughty pure-bloods who couldn’t pass up the chance to have  _Harry Potter_  in their houses, or lent the power of his name to organizations and coalitions and speech-makers doing work that he believed in. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would have to be done.  
  
For a moment, he quailed before the vision of all that work at a moment when he still sought to understand the life-debt magic and guard his children and balance his precarious relationship with Ginny. Then he dismissed his fears. He had made all these commitments of his own free will. If someone had sought to force him to take them up, it wouldn’t have worked anyway. Whinging now was out of the question.  
  
So lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the door of George’s room had opened until he felt a warm weight against him. Harry wrapped his arms around Ginny and held her near, murmuring soundless words of comfort. She wasn’t crying now, but she rested on him as if she were utterly worn out. He thought she might fall asleep if he stood still long enough.   
  
“Mate?”  
  
Harry looked up with a blink. Ron had a face that seemed to have aged years in the time since he had come to fetch Harry and Ginny from the house.  
  
“It’s George.” Ron flicked his head towards the room. “He’s asked to speak with you alone. The Healers will come back in a few minutes, but they said he could have one more visitor.”  
  
“And what else do the Healers say?” Harry asked.  
  
Ginny trembled in his embrace. Ron closed his eyes and turned his head away.  
  
“We have a week to say goodbye to him,” he stated flatly.   
  
Harry didn’t know how he found the strength to hand Ginny gently to Ron and walk into that room, but somehow, he found it.  
  
*  
  
At first, with George beneath blankets and his face turned to the wall, Harry could think he was almost fine, just a bit gashed about the shoulders and neck. Then, as he shut the door softly behind him, he realized that the whole shape of George’s body beneath the blankets was—wrong.  
  
“George?” he asked quietly.  
  
George turned to look at him. His eyes were wide and exhausted with pain, but he managed a smile. “Harry,” he said hoarsely, and extended his right arm. Harry came and took his hand. There were only three fingers to press on his five.  
  
“What happened?” he asked, because it seemed possible to ask that in this moment, though he hadn’t had the will to press Ron about how bad George’s injuries were.   
  
“Explosion that made the roof of the shop fall in on me,” said George, his eyes fluttering as if he were trying to blink back tears. But none crept down his face that Harry saw. “Then curses through the broken windows. They were aiming as if they knew exactly where I was. Maybe they did. I don’t know.”   
  
Harry jerked his chin at the bed. “Can I?”  
  
George nodded.  
  
Harry tugged the blankets back.  
  
He understood what Ron meant now. Medical magic could repair broken bones, grant new limbs on occasion, and close most wounds into scars, as long as they hadn’t been inflicted with Dark magic. But it could do nothing for this.  
  
George’s legs were gone. What remained were stumps of bone fragile as the wings of a dead bird. There were so many bandages wrapped around his pelvis and spine that Harry couldn’t see the damage there, but he saw spots of blood and darker fluids already beginning to soak through the bandages. His chest was seamed with scars and burns and wounds like open mouths. Harry had a moment, glassy and distant with what he knew to be shock, to be outraged that the Healers hadn’t bothered to tend to those wounds, and then he realized they had. But the bandages had withered away. A faint, terrible smell of putrescence rose from the puckers.  
  
“A week is how long they can keep you alive with magic,” he said.  
  
“Yes.”   
  
Something in the tone of George’s voice made Harry glance at his face again. There were still no tears, though Harry knew the pain from the curses which kept him bleeding and rotting alive must be terrible. He looked calm, serene, as if he were facing an illness that would pass over him and leave him as strong as before.  
  
Harry thought he knew what George wanted of him. He gave a slight shake of his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and felt the reality choking him. “I’m a powerful wizard, but I can’t heal you.”  
  
“I know that,” George said. “I wanted to ask you something else.” The press of his hand on Harry’s grew imperceptibly tighter. “They’ll keep me here for a week, Harry, dying from the inside out. They pretend it’s a kindness, because it’ll give me longer to spend with the family and ‘get my affairs in order,’ as the cheerful mediwizards put it.” His eyes did blink then, once, as if the horror had become too much. “I don’t want that to happen. I’ve seen the family, now, and the only person I would really regret leaving died ten years ago.”  
  
Harry wished there was a chair nearby. He could have done with a place to sit down. “You want me to kill you.”  
  
“Please,” George said, with a dignity that hurt.  
  
“Why  _me_?” Harry asked. He could weep and scream and rage—or refuse—but it seemed important that he get an answer to that question first. “Do you think I love you less than Ron and—and all the rest do?”  
  
George snorted. “I think you understand me better,” he said. “I saw you the day of Fred’s funeral. You were the one who told the others to stop when they tried to take me away from the gravestone. You knew I wanted to stay there overnight, and staying there would do me no harm.” He caught his breath, lightly enough that he had started speaking again before Harry could fuss aloud. “You know what pain is.”  
  
Harry looked carefully at his brother-in-law, more carefully than he’d bothered to look in ten years. If anyone had asked, he would have said that George had managed to get beyond the mourning for his twin. He still worked in the shop; he smiled, although he made fewer jokes; he was always happy to care for the children when Harry and Ginny couldn’t. But Harry remembered, now, that the smiles had never touched his eyes.  
  
He had thought George needed time. But he knew now that forever would not have been long enough.  
  
“And they won’t let you go,” he whispered.  
  
George shook his head, eyes wide and clear and knowing. “They couldn’t after Fred’s death. They can’t now. I can  _understand_. I mean, Mum almost panicked when I lost this ear, and losing Fred almost destroyed her, would she want to lose another son? And the others will think like Mum, or support her. But—“ He snorted lightly. “If there’s any time I should get to be selfish, I think it’s now.”  
  
“It  _is_  selfish,” said Harry, but he wasn’t thinking about the Weasleys.  
  
George smiled gently at him. “I know,” he said. “Not fair to you, to ask you to do this. But, Harry, there literally is no one else. If Mum even knew I was thinking it, she’d get them to sedate me for the week or something, just so she could sit with my body and have that much comfort left.  
  
“Please. The best part of me died with the war. Let the rest go.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. He could easily imagine what Ginny would say, if she knew. Or Ron. This would destroy his friendships with them, or at the very least, cast a shadow between them that could never be lifted.  
  
“If the Healers said you had a week to live,” he whispered, drawing his wand, “won’t they think it’s suspicious that I came in here and then you died?”  
  
He opened his eyes, and saw George smiling at him—a smile that reached his eyes, this time. He knew, just as Harry did, that the drawing of the wand meant Harry had made his decision.  
  
“No,” George said calmly. “The Healers warned Mum and the rest that the magic was chancy. They have to renew the spells every hour. And there’s always a small chance that they’ll go wrong. They’ll just think that they went wrong this time, or they waited too long—it’s been almost an hour already, I think—or that my nervous system finally gave up fighting.”  
  
Harry licked his lips. Then he aimed his wand at George and said, “I’ll use  _Praefoco_. I can’t be sure it’ll be painless—“  
  
“It sounds perfect,” said George, and there was light that had nothing to do with the room’s windows in his face. “They’ll never know. And, mate? The pain I’m feeling now, chances are I’ll never notice the addition.”  
  
Harry nodded. Then he twisted his fingers in George’s and laid the wand against his chest.  
  
“Wanted you to know,” George whispered, “that we both thought you were great, Harry. The kind of little brother Ron really needed. And we never regretted that you married Ginny. You were what she needed, too.”  
  
Bittersweetness graced Harry at the praise, as it had to, but then, George  _had_  used the past tense. Maybe he knew.  
  
It wasn’t the right time to shove his problems to the forefront. He said, “Say hello to Fred for me?”  
  
“I already have, mate,” George said. “Each and every day.”  
  
Harry didn’t think he could take it anymore. And George seemed to have spoken his last words, anyway. He lay still, eyes shut, face expectant.  
  
“ _Praefoco_ ,” Harry said.  
  
Lines of light that looked like sticky white webbing shot out of his wand and vanished into George’s chest. Harry could feel the tingle of the magic working its way downwards and into George’s lungs and what remained of his body. A much subtler cousin of the Suffocation Charm, this magic pressed the air out of every place it reached, mimicking a natural process that happened to every human body in death anyway.  
  
Harry didn’t know how many people might have been murdered with this spell over the years. But now, if it had never happened before,  _Praefoco_  was serving a good purpose.  
  
It had to be good, he thought, as he watched George’s features and saw the pain, both old and new, ease out of them at the same moment as his lungs ceased to labor.   
  
The light in his face, on the other hand, did not depart.  
  
*  
  
Draco lingered a discreet distance down the corridor from George Weasley’s room. He hardly wanted to intrude on what seemed to be a private family affair. But he  _had_ noticed that they were all standing uselessly about, embracing and murmuring to one another, and that Harry was not with them. Draco thought he was alone with the wounded Weasley twin.  
  
He had no reason to think that. Maybe the Healers were in the room and Harry was off tending to his children or making necessary arrangements, like the endlessly responsible person he had shown himself to be of late.  
  
But he nevertheless unshakably believed it to be true. And as concern for Harry had brought him to the hospital in the first place, he stood there, watching, and now and then checking the monitoring spell affixed to his wrist, which let him know that Scorpius was still alive, physically healthy, and under the watchful care of Narcissa. Draco envisioned himself wearing that spell quite a lot in the near future.  
  
The door opened. Sure enough, Harry stepped out. Draco gave a sharp little nod of congratulations to himself.  
  
Then he stopped.  
  
Harry’s head was bowed, and he said something that made the embracing, murmuring Weasleys turn to face him at once. Their voices stopped.  
  
Then the Weasley mother screamed like nothing human and sagged to the floor. Her husband bent over her, his face gray, his hands wandering as if they could not quite find purchase on his wife’s body.  
  
The Weasley twin was dead, then. Draco swallowed. Strange to think that the thought brought a distant sort of grief, perhaps for the death of someone he had known for a good portion of his life, perhaps just for the thought of what it would cost Harry.  
  
Strange to realize that he still thought of George Weasley as a twin.  
  
“I was with him in his last moments, yes,” Harry was saying when Draco paid attention again. “Holding his hand. He died peacefully. Just—just took a breath, and then he didn’t take the next one.”  
  
Draco’s gaze narrowed and sharpened. He didn’t think anyone else noticed, distracted as they were by grief, but Harry’s voice had a mechanical precision to it that Draco had already learned to recognize.  
  
The great git was lying.  
  
And since Draco doubted that Harry Potter would either murder George Weasley in cold blood, or simply let him expire in pain without shouting for help, that left a mercy-killing. Which Harry would have the guts to do. Which he would also have the guts to lie about, so as not to cause George’s relatives to think he wanted to die and leave them. And which he would accept the burden of, to carry it in silence, because he was  _like_  that.  
  
The great git.  
  
Harry’s wife was sobbing in one of her older brothers’ arms. Granger huddled next to her husband, and then leaned fully against him, as though Harry’s announcement had taken the strength from her legs; her face looked as if she had been struck. The tallest Weasley son and his silver-haired wife and daughter embraced, while the third son—Percy?—joined his parents. Harry stood alone for a moment, his eyes cast down, his stance radiating discomfort and unhappiness. Then he murmured something about “making arrangements” that Draco doubted any of the others paid attention to, and slipped down the corridor.  
  
Towards Draco.  
  
Draco checked the monitoring spell one more time, then reached out and caught Harry’s wrist as he started to stride past the small alcove. Harry turned, a startled exclamation on his lips, one hand already raising his wand, but then he recognized Draco.  
  
And his defenses dropped. For just one moment, one moment that made Draco believe in Harry’s acceptance of him as he never had before, he saw Harry’s yearning for comfort, for peace, for someone who could walk beside him and share all the responsibilities and secrets he was carrying, while he helped them with their responsibilities and secrets in turn.  
  
“Draco,” Harry said, and the moment retreated as he blinked and retreated in turn, to the limit of Draco’s hold on his wrist. “What are you doing here? Was there another attack? Are Scorpius and your mother—“  
  
“Hush, they’re fine,” Draco whispered, and pulled him close again, an easier task than he had expected. Harry seemed oddly strengthless. Well, if he had done what Draco suspected he had, that wasn’t surprising. “I came to see about you. And now I find that you need me more than I thought you did.”  
  
Harry shut his eyes and bowed his head. Draco ran his free hand up the side of his cheek. The gesture had relaxed Harry and made him open up once before, when they discussed the life-debt magic; maybe it would again.  
  
Harry sighed, and then stiffened his shoulders as though someone had told him he would only have help if he possessed the right posture. “I appreciate that,” he said. “Especially since you were just embattled yourself.” He blinked his eyes open and licked his lips. “But I should go tell the Healers about George’s—passing—“  
  
The truth was so visible on his face that Draco couldn’t help saying it. “He asked you to help him leave, didn’t he?”  
  
Harry shuddered, and a new line of tension formed between his brows. “How do you  _do_  that?” he whispered harshly. “You’re not supposed to know me that well. No one is except Ginny. Sometimes I think Hermione is right that—“  
  
“Don’t try to change the subject,” Draco said calmly. For now, he was the strong one, and the feeling was oddly wonderful, grieved though he was for Harry. He was supporting someone else, and that hadn’t occurred, except sometimes with Scorpius, for a decade. Until now, he’d been the one Harry had to rescue, or his mother had to plan a future for. Even his reaching out to Blaise and Millicent didn’t count, didn’t matter, as much as this. “I don’t despise you for that. I think you’re stronger than all of us here, though if my mother asked for the same thing, I hope I could do it.”  
  
Harry looked away. Draco gently altered the shape of his hand so that it cupped Harry’s jaw and turned his face back.  
  
“Draco,” Harry breathed. His eyelids were quivering, and a moment later the same fine tremors racked his arms.  
  
“What?” Draco asked softly. He splayed out his fingers, so that he was touching as much of Harry’s face as possible. No, not as much as possible; he lifted the other, letting Harry’s wrist fall, and cupped his left cheek.  
  
“Please, let me go.”  
  
“Why?” Draco barely needed to shape his lips around the word; Harry stood so close that he knew he would hear him no matter how softly he spoke.  
  
“If you don’t,” Harry said, “I’ll start crying.” He glanced up, and Draco immediately hated the look in his eyes. It wasn’t  _real_. It was just a mirror, just a temporary glass dam flung up in front of the devouring grief. “And I won’t be able to stop.”  
  
“Do you not deserve to mourn, then?” Draco’s voice had grown a bit louder and harsher. “Are you just going to be the strong and silent type until the day when you break down and can’t pick up the pieces anymore?”  
  
*  
  
Harry shivered again. He didn’t understand how Draco could  _know_  him that well, down to picking up the metaphors that Harry had used to himself in those times outside Eaglethorpe’s office when he had thought he would collapse of his own too-much.   
  
But one thing was absolutely clear. If Ginny found him here with Draco, it wouldn’t matter whether or not she knew that he’d killed George. She would still be hurt, and that was the last thing she needed now.  
  
He grasped Draco’s wrists and slowly, carefully, took his hands from his face. Draco sneered at him, and leaned so close that their noses touched and Harry could make out every jagged twist and turn of the scar on his forehead.  
  
“We’ve shared too much to go back now,” Draco snarled, and turned his hands over so that Harry could see the scars on them.   
  
“I know,” Harry whispered. The horrible temptation assailed him again, to just collapse and let someone else handle things for a while. It was horrible because he was so close to giving in to it.  
  
And if he did, what would happen then? He’d lose the delicate balance he’d fought so hard to achieve and maintain. He might gain Draco, but he’d lose Ginny and the children. To have them both, he needed to keep going for a while. Just for a little while. He would rest soon. Just a little longer. This wasn’t the time to ask Ginny to bear his burdens, when her brother had just died, and to ask Draco to bear them was unthinkable, too, when his family was in danger and he needed to devote his time to them.  
  
“I know,” he repeated, since Draco was still staring at him and waiting for an answer. “I’d never deny our friendship or—or what you mean to me. But—I need to be with Ginny for right now. That’s all.” He licked his lips. “Do you understand?”  
  
“If Scorpius died,” said Draco steadily, and Harry didn’t know how he could name that terrible possibility without a flinch, “I’d want you there. I’d let you help, because you’re my friend.”  
  
“I know,” Harry said, “but you also don’t have a whole horde of relatives who hate me.”  
  
Draco peered closely at him. Harry endured the sense of eyes peeling back layers of his mistakes like scalpels, because he had to.   
  
“That’s it, then?” Draco asked, though it didn’t really seem like a question. “You’d let me help if there wasn’t a history of feuding between the Weasleys and Malfoys as long as a dragon’s tail?”  
  
Harry smiled. His lips cracked when he did. “Yes,” he said. “Absolutely.”  
  
Draco nodded, thoughtfully. “You’re really worried about hurting her. Or them.”  
  
“Of course,” Harry said. “Is that a  _surprise_? I’m worried about hurting you just as much.”  
  
*  
  
 _Oh, Harry._  
  
Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest thing to say, but looking at the determination and misery battling for control in Harry’s eyes—and at least that was better than the façade of mere determination—Draco couldn’t help himself.  
  
“Has it ever occurred to you,” he said, “that you can hurt someone and still be forgiven? That wounds aren’t forever?”  
  
Harry just stared at him.  
  
“Obviously not,” Draco whispered, and then clasped Harry’s shoulder and squeezed, once. It was much less than the embrace he wanted to give, but the embrace would be pushing right now, and he’d agreed not to push.  
  
“When you need me,” he said, “or when you can get away for a moment and need help, I’ll be here.”  
  
He slipped away down the St. Mungo’s corridors, though he felt as if he was leaving a piece of himself behind, and he knew Harry’s gaze trailed him the entire way.  
  
Such a delicate balance. He hoped that he would be nearby when Harry finally lost his balance on the morality tightrope, so that he could catch him in time.  
  
On the other hand, Harry did not want pushing, did not want care. Draco supposed he could understand, when Harry was so much more used to taking care of everyone _else_.   
  
And he did have to respect the wishes of someone he cared for and wanted as much as he cared for and wanted Harry.  
  
 _Hard as it is and will be. But then, neither of us is a stranger to suffering._


	24. Dragons

It seemed to take twice as long as it should—at times, Harry felt as if he were moving underwater—but he got things done. He informed the Healers that George had died, and endured their condolences, and contacted the Weasleys’ solicitor, who for some years had been his own as well, and was the person the Weasleys would most trust to make funeral arrangements outside the immediate family. He held Ginny when she wanted to be held. He took a turn at comforting Mrs. Weasley (futile task though that was). He relieved Luna at home and reassured his crying, frightened sons that he was all right, and Mummy was all right, but Uncle George had gone away and wouldn’t be visiting anymore. Then he soothed the tears that resulted when James decided that Uncle George had gone away because of Al. He contacted Andromeda, let her know what had happened, and received her reassurances, one more time, that both she and Teddy were all right.  
  
All the while, his secret burned in him like a torch. He acquired the odd idea that he was transparent to people; they would look at him and see the guilt reducing his body to shadow. But no, it was only Draco’s eyes he was that readable to. He gave thanks for it; if his wife even  _suspected_  the truth…  
  
It would destroy them. Harry didn’t think he could keep going past that destruction. He would carry any burden to avoid it.  
  
He thought he had been wrong to do it.  
  
But then, should he have let George waste away in pain? That would have been equally wrong.  
  
Harry had no idea. Luckily, Ginny arrived home at that moment and gave him something to do. He came to meet her with Lily tucked in one arm, sleeping peacefully—she was too young to know that anything important had happened today, despite her fright earlier—and kissed her forehead, and offered tea.  
  
Ginny closed her eyes and shook her head, once. “No,” she whispered. “Let me make it. I can’t—I still can’t  _think_ , but this will give me something to do.”  
  
Harry nodded to her, and then took Lily into her bedroom and laid her in her cot, singing softly when she stirred against his shoulder and would have woken. For long moments, he remained bent, gazing into her face. She had no traces of a lightning bolt scar. She had no traces of pain, yet.  
  
He was determined that she would never have cause for any.  
  
 _And letting her know that her father murdered her uncle and is uncertain about his marriage to her mother would give her some._  
  
His hand shaking, Harry swept her hair out of her eyes and breathed a sigh. That was just another reason for refusing a relationship with Draco. It would hurt Ginny, but it would hurt his children even more, and he had to think about them.  
  
 _And why am I thinking about this at all, with what happened today? Shouldn’t I be mourning George instead of angsting about my attraction to Draco?_  
  
Perhaps he should, but he did not feel the mourning as a distinct pain. It had blended into the general agony he was carrying, which could be endured only as numbness. He would have time to weep later.  
  
He returned to cups of tea and Ginny mingling tears with hers. Harry maneuvered himself so that he could sit with one arm around her while he drank. Her head fell heavily against his shoulder, and she continued to cry.  
  
“It was so senseless,” she whispered. “The attack, all the curses he took, the way he died—the Healers said he would live at  _least_  another week! Why do you think they lied to us, Harry?”  
  
“I don’t think they did,” Harry said. The torch of his guilt wavered and scorched him. “I think they made their best estimate. It just turned out to be wrong, that’s all.”  
  
“They shouldn’t have said anything at all, then!” Ginny muttered savagely, and downed her tea. Harry sipped his more slowly. Now that the moments of busy activity were past and he had a chance to think, he could feel his eyelids creeping downwards. He yawned, twice, and the second time Ginny glanced up at him with a watery smile.  
  
“Ready for bed?” she asked.  
  
It was only five in the evening, but Harry was. He nodded and finished his tea, trying to do it before he would lose all the strength in his hands and drop the cup on the table.  
  
*  
  
Someone was shouting his name, but it was at a distance. Harry didn’t think he needed to pay attention. He grumbled and tugged the sheets further up over his head, so that he wasn’t listening. Perhaps whoever shouted would take the hint and leave him alone.  
  
Then a hand shook his shoulder. Harry didn’t want to pay attention to that, either, but it shook and dragged and finally formed its fingers into claws and sank them in. He sat up with a slurred mutter. His eyes were so gummed it took almost a minute to open them, and his movements dragged when he lifted a hand to bat his hair out of his face, clumsy with sleep.  
  
“Harry,” Ginny whispered. He finally forced his eyelids to part, and realized he was staring at her in a bathrobe. He wondered how she could have risen from the bed and not awakened him. Of course, he  _had_  been tired, and he wasn’t sure she had gone to sleep at all. He’d collapsed the moment his head hit the pillow.  
  
“Harry,” she repeated. “Hermione is in the drawing room. She came through the Floo.” She paused and licked her lips. “She says Hogwarts is about to be attacked.”  
  
Those words, finally, broke the glassy haze exerting its hold over Harry’s imagination. He snatched his wand, cast a Summoning Charm for his own robe—he slept in his pants, normally, and he imagined that Hermione didn’t want to be subjected to that—and then stumbled into the drawing room.  
  
More and more of the slumber fell away as he walked. It wasn’t grief keeping him on his feet, but rage.  
  
He knew Hermione hadn’t come just to tell him the news, but to summon him to the defense.  
  
This was a chance to take vengeance for George.  
  
Sure enough, Hermione was dressed for early autumn flying, with thick gloves and robes, and clutching a broom. She nodded when she saw him, and said, “How soon can you be ready to travel to Hogwarts?”  
  
“Five minutes,” said Harry. “Two for the clothes, one for the broom, two to firecall Draco.”  
  
Hermione started and stared at him. “You don’t even know what the battle’s going to be like yet, and you’re bringing Malfoy?”  
  
“ _Tell_  me what the battle’s going to be like,” Harry snapped, and then Summoned his clothes from the bedroom. Hermione turned discreetly away as he dressed, but the line of her back was taut.  
  
“We got another warning a few minutes ago,” she said. “There will be dragons circling over Hogwarts. We need confident, powerful wizards who are good at flying.” She snorted. “I don’t think Malfoy fits any of those criteria except perhaps the last.”  
  
“You didn’t hear his story of how he defended his baby son from a Blood Hydra this morning,” Harry said absently, and waved his wand to button all his robes at once—a habit that Ginny considered cheating, but he was in a hurry. “And I did say that he would fight at my side in this war, and I wouldn’t leave him behind.”  
  
“Harry,” Hermione hissed, swirling around to face him again. “You can’t bring along someone who’ll hinder us just to keep a ridiculous promise.”  
  
Harry cast the Summoning Charm for his broom, and felt his face falling into stubborn lines. He  _hated_  taking the opposite side to his family all the time, he thought wistfully. Just once, couldn’t they have accepted Draco the way they would have pushed for Draco to accept them, if he’d been dating Harry for years?  
  
 _And_  that’s  _a dangerous kind of thought that I’m staying well away from._  
  
“And you have no way of knowing whether he’ll hinder us,” Harry said. “I don’t think so. He’s recovering his confidence, and he’s determined to show that he can be of use. You’re just prejudiced against him because he’s Malfoy. As usual.”  
  
“There were other things we discussed, Harry,” Hermione said in a low, deadly voice, as Harry moved past her and tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fire. His call of “Malfoy Manor!” was answered by the squeak of a house-elf, who faithfully bowed when Harry inquired after Draco and promised to wake him immediately. “Many of them involved your wife’s happiness in your marriage.”  
  
“And what about mine?” Harry snapped, turning to look at her. Then he shook his head as she opened her mouth. “Forget that. I don’t know where it came from.”   
  
He turned back again as Draco’s face appeared in the flames. His eyes darted to Harry’s broom, and he smiled grimly. He didn’t look as if he’d slept, but strangely, that hadn’t added dark circles beneath his eyes or other telltale marks; he looked pared to the bone instead, thin, hungry, ready to attack.   
  
 _Even sleep deprivation just makes him more beautiful_ , Harry thought, and then felt a sense of despair, because both that thought and the sheer comfort he was taking in Draco’s closeness showed that he couldn’t even overcome his inappropriate lust when it was a matter of life and death. He was ashamed of himself.  
  
He hurried on, hoping that he could speak the truth before Draco saw that admiration just as he’d seen Harry’s guilt in the matter of George’s death. “Hogwarts is about to be under attack by dragons,” he said quickly. “We need powerful, clever wizards who can fly well. Can you get a broom and meet us there?”  
  
Draco’s lips parted in a slight, soundless gasp. Perhaps he hadn’t believed that Harry would keep his promise to include him in the war. “I can,” he said. “Is the Floo connection open?”  
  
“For the next ten minutes,” Hermione intervened. She seemed to have accepted that Draco was coming with them, or perhaps she was just too polite to show her doubt openly in front of him. Her voice was cool, but not overtly hostile. “Then the Headmistress will close them, in fear that the enemy will come through them.”  
  
Draco nodded, and then pinned Harry with a look he couldn’t translate. It was intense, and it held him, and perhaps that was enough. When Draco pulled away and the flames turned from green back to red, Harry blinked and shook his head. He had to snap out of this daze, whether Draco or sleep caused it.  
  
“Ready, Harry?”  
  
Hermione was speaking in that tone of voice that told Harry they would have things to  _discuss_  later. But for now, he was going into battle, and he had the chance to inflict some pain on the same people who had made the end of George’s life so horrible.  
  
And Draco would be fighting on the same side as he was.  
  
He stepped back to let Hermione have access to the Floo in answer. Since they would be leaving from inside the house, the bodyguards didn’t need to accompany them. In the moment of spinning darkness that consumed them before they landed in the school, the thought came to Harry that, what with the attack inside the house and then his traveling to St. Mungo’s in a crowd of people, he hadn’t had much need for them so far. Perhaps Hermione would let him get rid of them.  
  
 _Probably not._  
  
But that line of thought was still more productive than anything having to do with Draco.  
  
*  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
Draco didn’t look over his shoulder as he flung on his old Quidditch gear; he’d had one of his house-elves modify it with magic so that he wouldn’t have to tinker with tailoring spells himself. His broom was already near at hand, and he knew what the expression on his mother’s face would be if he looked: quiet appraisal. He hadn’t done something like this in ten years, and she knew it, and he knew she knew, and she knew he knew she knew, and there was no need to speak the truth aloud.  
  
“To fight dragons at Hogwarts,” he said. “They’re being attacked, or about to be attacked, and I’ll fight at Harry’s side. Take care of Scorpius for me if I end up in St. Mungo’s.”  
  
He heard a sound that he had to seek out the source of, then, because it was so unexpected: a soft gasp. He turned and found his mother with her hand held to her mouth, tears filling her eyes.  
  
“You really are living again,” she said. “I had wondered.”  
  
Draco smiled at her, and held her eyes for a moment—all he had time for. Besides, between them, it would speak literal volumes.  
  
He picked up his broom and gave his mother a brief embrace. He wished he had the time to look in on Scorpius, but the nursery was the wrong direction from his bedroom and too far away. He had spent most of the day after he came back from St. Mungo’s with his son. He had said goodbye, if he needed to say it, in as many possible ways as he could. It would have to do.  
  
“I will see you later,” he said, as if saying it could make it so, and then walked over to his fireplace, threw in a handful of Floo powder, and shouted, “Hogwarts infirmary!” It was the only Floo he could think of likely to be open. Possibly the Headmistress’s office was, but he didn’t  _know_ , and appearing in the middle of the Slytherin common room would only terrify the students. Besides, that was probably shut, and for good reason.  
  
Sure enough, he appeared in the middle of a crowd of people. He looked swiftly about, eyes rejecting face after face and figure after figure as not what he was after, and then focused on one man who stood next to Granger, leaning on his broom, his eyes intent.  
  
He hadn’t seen Harry in the middle of battle before, unless the Triwizard Tournament counted, but Draco found himself simultaneously relaxed and energized by the sight. Of course this was what Harry looked like. He strode towards him, and halfway there Harry noticed him and glanced up.  
  
A few other voices in the room stuttered to uncomfortable stops, but Harry’s slow, blazing smile was more than enough to make up for them. Draco stepped up and set his shoulder against Harry’s, bumping him slightly. Harry bumped him back, and then, so subtly that Draco could hardly believe it, and thought it was likely that Harry himself didn’t know what he was doing, leaned on him instead of the broom. Draco took a few careful breaths and then forced himself to pay attention to the plan.  
  
The warning had not been specific enough about the placement of the dragons, he learned quickly. It had said that ten dragons were coming, mostly Hungarian Horntails and Peruvian Vipertooths, but it did not know much more than that. They were to take their brooms up—the forty Aurors and Blood Reparations people that Granger had managed to round up on such short notice—and do what they could. Granger listed the spells effective against a dragon quickly, obviously expecting the people who listened to be able to memorize them and to already know the incantations. From the way people nodded at her, she wasn’t wrong about that.  
  
“Well, Potter,” Draco said, in a low enough voice that Harry was the only one to hear, “it seems that you’ll get to see your Peruvian Vipertooth after all, though I can’t promise it’ll be anything like a holiday.”  
  
Harry looked at him, and his face was  _shining_. And then he whispered, “You’ve had that dream too, now?”  
  
“Yes,” Draco said, and the affirmation was more than just an answer to the question, though he wasn’t sure Harry knew it.  
  
 _Yes. Over and over again. No matter what the question is that he asks._  
  
*  
  
Harry squinted as they rose from the front doors of Hogwarts. The wind stung tears from his eyes, and, never having played Quidditch at night, he had not realized how thick the darkness would be. At least it was a full moon night, and where it did not shine, the lamps of Hogwarts or the stars sometimes did.  
  
His broom was braced between Draco’s and Hermione’s; Hermione was still concerned that the organizers of the attack might target Harry specially, but she had the sense to realize that no bodyguard could keep up with Harry when he flew. She probably couldn’t either, though she had improved enough in the past ten years to become part of this vanguard. Harry saw her darting speculative looks at Draco, as if she were wondering whether Draco would actually be the best choice to stay at Harry’s side. Perhaps she had remembered the Hogwarts games with Slytherin and how close Draco often was to him.  
  
 _Hogwarts._  
  
They were high enough now that Harry could see the whole of the castle, the lake, the Quidditch Pitch, and a good part of the Forbidden Forest. He felt a wave of fierce, tender love sweep over him. This had been his first home, even if the house where he lived with Ginny was his home now. He would give his life to defend it.  
  
He took his wand into his hand, while all around them the other Aurors and Blood Reparations workers fanned out. Harry stared to the south, wondering if the dragons would appear from there.  
  
And then a shrill cry rose from the opposite point of the circle, and Harry spun around.  
  
He could make them out already, dark shapes under the moon, flying rapidly from the north, their wings opening and closing with a horrific speed that made Harry swallow. He suddenly remembered that the dragon he had dueled in the Triwizard Tournament had not flown.   
  
 _What can we really do—_  
  
And then he reminded himself that he had survived the encounter with the dragon he and Ron and Hermione had freed from the depths of Gringotts, and that this was really the best force they could put together right now. Hermione had called on other contacts of hers, and they would be coming later, Dragon-Keepers riding winged horses, but that would take too much time. There  _had_  to be someone here to meet the first attack, and protect the students.   
  
 _There has to._  
  
He wondered at first how they would tell which ones were the Hungarian Horntails and which ones the Peruvian Vipertooths, but he had forgotten that the difference in size of the dragons also made a difference in speed. Seven small, lithe shapes quickly pulled away from the rest, and swooped madly towards them, while the bigger dragons were still laboring past a tower of clouds that would obscure the moon.  
  
“Now,” Hermione said, her voice stern.  
  
Harry knew what the signal meant, along with everyone else she’d discussed this plan with before they took to the air, and lifted his wand. “ _Flamma solaris_!” he shouted, and forty other voices shouted along with him.  
  
He later thought, though he knew it was silly to think about, that his wand and Draco’s had both reacted at once.  
  
Enormous flares of light struck through the darkness, bringing day into midnight and providing them with more than enough illumination to see the foe. Harry heard the eerie, keening wails that were dragons screaming, and suspected the light had stung their sensitive eyes. He grinned fiercely, and then shot a quick glance at Hermione. She nodded at him. She knew he was the best choice to handle one of the Horntails.  
  
“Four to a dragon!” she bellowed; she must have cast  _Sonorus_  on herself. “More experienced flyers take the Horntails! Watch out for the riders!”  
  
Startled, Harry looked at the Vipertooths again, who were close enough now that he could see the smoke rising from their nostrils and the gleam of the long front teeth for which they’d been named, and realized that there  _were_  humans sitting on their backs. He grimaced.  
  
 _So much for not being able to domesticate dragons_ , he thought, and then whipped his broom into motion.   
  
He charged past the Vipertooths, with Draco right beside and slightly below him, but did take the moment to cast a host of small stinging spells, which he knew would burrow under the dragons’ scales and drive them mad, if he was lucky. If the riders’ control of their mounts was fragile, it might even break them free altogether.  
  
One Vipertooth began thrashing and screaming just then, and though Harry didn’t know if he could take credit for that, he liked to imagine he could.  
  
They passed beyond the original range of the flare of sunlight, and he heard the first yells of exploding battle as the broom-riders began to close with the Vipertooths. Silently, he wished them well, and then cast the sunlight spell again. The Horntails were drawing near with terrible speed.  
  
One large one attracted his attention immediately. He could make out the makeshift bridle that straddled the head, and the reins that led back to the hands of the rider—a heavily cloaked witch. Her face was well-lit, but still hidden entirely by a mask of black and purple worked in abstract designs.  
  
Harry felt his face wrinkle into a snarl.  
  
He  _did_  think it right that he engage with the Masked Lady, who seemed so very anxious to kill him and break Draco.  
  
*  
  
Draco knew immediately what kind of dance the contest with the Horntails would be—a dodge and duck and dart, the intense competition that his Quidditch games with Harry had been. Seekers would do well there. He hesitated for the merest moment, wondering if he should attack a Horntail himself.  
  
But then he shook his head and stuck close to Harry. He had a responsibility, and both his own choice and practicality dictated he should stay where he was.  
  
He gave a nod when he saw the masked woman on the Horntail Harry was heading for. Another advantage of his position was clear now: he had the chance for a little personal vengeance.  
  
Harry shouted something of which Draco could hear only the words, “—you were dead!” But he heard the Masked Lady’s response, calm and clear as though there were still air and not wind between them. Maybe the spell she’d used to disguise her voice—of course it would be disguised—gave her words other properties as well.  
  
“I regret that you are my enemy. I am only doing this for my own chance to take vengeance.”  
  
And then she made some gesture with her wand, and the Horntail opened its mouth and breathed fire.  
  
Draco was already rolling in evasive maneuvers, of course, and compared to dodging Bludgers, which moved in several different directions within a few moments, Harry must have thought this was child’s play. Draco righted himself and smiled when he saw Harry not only still on his broom, but above the Horntail, hurling curses at the Masked Lady. It was a good strategy: kill the human rider, and the dragon would probably go wild, which might mean disaster but at least was unlikely to keep them heading straight at Hogwarts.  
  
And then Harry laughed.  
  
Draco’s smile died at the sound of that. Harry sounded—wild.  _Mad_. As though he had forgotten rational rules of battle and just wanted to hurt his enemies.  
  
Draco pulled up, studying the situation with one hand on his wand, his peripheral vision telling him the other dragons had passed on and they were now in the rear of the battle. Flares of fire stitched the air in various places, and there were nearly constant screams, but no one was heaving up beside them to aid the Masked Lady. He and Harry should pull back and make a combined attack.  
  
Instead, Harry attacked with any curse that came to his lips, some wasteful, designed only to cause pain. Draco ground his teeth, and started flying again, readying himself to aim a Conjunctivitis Curse at the dragon’s eyes. It was the only thing he could think to do.  
  
And then a movement attracted his attention, and he turned his head.  
  
The Masked Lady had excellent control of her dragon, and Harry had forgotten what breed he was fighting. As Draco watched, the deadly spiked tail rose and whistled straight towards his oblivious friend.  
  
Draco’s mind went blank, save for a single long scream of rage and frustration. Luckily, his body had better sense, and was already bent flat along the broom as he flew.  
  
*  
  
Harry no longer felt as though he were transparent to any eyes that wanted to watch his wavering torch of guilt. It had gone to light the larger conflagration blazing in him, the happy, dancing, joyous fury caused when he saw the Masked Lady clutching her bleeding, broken arm, and knew that he had wounded her.  
  
He saw the tail out of the corner of his eye.  
  
He was reacting before he knew it, barrel-rolling to the side so that the tail would go past him. But he had moved too soon, or the dragon was faster than he had assumed, or it could change the direction of its tail at the last moment despite all the weight behind it.   
  
The blow connected along his ribs. Harry shuddered and cried out as he heard his bones shatter like hot fat popping, and then the pain came, and his hands opened, and he fell from his broom.  
  
Darkness and light and moon and stars and scales and blood flew past him, and Harry knew he would be dead before he hit the ground. He was still fighting in his mind, but his eyes were closing and the wounds along his side were hurrying the life out of his body as though they had decided independently on suicide.  
  
And then arms caught him, snatched him, flew with him for a moment, and stopped his fall by drawing him onto a broom.  
  
And everything melted in a wash of gold and white.  
  
Harry was gasping, crying, coughing, even as he felt the line of the wounds along his ribs pull violently together, rejecting death just as his body had rejected life a moment ago. The bones slammed back into place. Pain kept him helpless and voiceless for long moments, and then he was aware again, blinking, dazed, as he watched the life-debt lightning vanish, and knew they were bound by a sixth scar in the shape of the jagged skin along his side.  
  
Draco’s voice snarled in his ear, “I am going to look  _unattractive_  with that scar, Potter. On the ground,  _now_.”  
  
Harry had no objections, though, as he clung weakly to Draco, he did lift his head to see what had become of the Masked Lady and her Horntail. He blinked when he could find no trace of them, and turned his head, thinking Draco must have flown a long distance horizontally while he was senseless.  
  
Nothing. In fact, he could see no dragons towards Hogwarts when he looked in that direction, either. He shook his head.  
  
“What happened?” he whispered.  
  
“No words,” Draco said briskly. “Rest.”  
  
Harry made an impatient little noise in the back of his throat, hoping to convey that he couldn’t rest until Draco told him the truth. Draco sighed into his ear, and his fingers, locked around Harry’s waist, flexed, digging into the still-raw wound and making him flinch. Draco paused, then repeated the motion, more gently but still firmly.  
  
 _Possessively._  
  
Harry banished the word, willed it not to exist, and then listened to Draco’s explanation.  
  
“The minute you fell, the Masked Lady turned her dragon away, and the rest followed. I’m not sure why. Maybe she thought you were dead, or she’d been too badly wounded to continue fighting, or she knew that the attack wasn’t going to achieve what she’d wanted it to. Roasting helpless children in their beds, most likely.”  
  
Harry giggled at the venom in Draco’s tone. “See?” he muttered, drunk and dizzy with relief and joy and pain. “You do have a sense of ethics, after all.”  
  
“Shut  _up_ , Potter.”  
  
He sounded serious, for whatever reason, and so Harry sobered and watched Hogwarts come nearer and nearer in silence. He could feel something new struggling to be born in his mind, anyway.  
  
Maybe it was a revelation about the Masked Lady, or the stupidity of revenge. He could wait for it.  
  
*  
  
Draco’s hands were shaking as he stared down at the infirmary bed where Harry lay. Even though the life-debt had healed him completely, the school matron had still insisted that Harry stay here with the other casualties of the battle, so that she could check him over. Draco had called Harry’s wound “small,” though, having no idea how he’d reveal the truth otherwise, and currently the mediwitch was on the other side of the room, examining a protesting Granger.  
  
He looked at Harry, and the only thought that could pass through his clogged mind was,  _I almost saw him die in front of me._  
  
The emotion was the same in degree, though not in kind, as he had felt that morning when he watched Scorpius in the coils of the Blood Hydra.  
  
 _I don’t care what he thinks. We’re so bound—and by six of them, now—that there’s no going back. I won’t push, but if he tries to step backwards, I’ll hit him so hard that he’ll think it was_  another  _dragon._  
  
*  
  
Harry looked up at Draco. Draco’s eyes were bright and nearly frantic with worry. He touched Harry’s forehead, over the lightning bolt scar whose twin he bore, with a tender hand. Harry felt the revelation rising further and further to the surface of his mind as he lay there. He really didn’t want to look at anything other than Draco, despite the earlier temptation to lift his tattered robes and examine the new scar over his ribs.  
  
The revelation rose fully.  
  
A warm weight turned over in his stomach, like an egg rolling in syrup.  
  
 _Holy God, I’m in love with him._  
  
Harry’s eyes flared open. Draco said something, but Harry didn’t hear it over the sudden pounding of blood in his ears.  
  
 _No. No, I can’t be. Please—_  
  
But the evidence was immediately in his mind, and relentless. His arousal with Draco wasn’t  _happening_  around other men, the same way his arousal with Ginny didn’t happen around other women. He’d wanted Draco to stay behind and safely out of this war, the same way that he’d tried to keep Ginny safe by breaking up with her before the Horcrux quest. He wanted to be near to him, he trusted him, he wasn’t panicked that Draco knew his guilt about George or even at how well Draco could read him, he missed the dreams of him that he hadn’t had tonight, he missed him  _every_  time he wasn’t around, he was ready to defy one of his oldest friends to stay with him—  
  
He was in love.  
  
Harry shuddered twice, a low whine rising in his throat, tears prickling against the outside of his eyelashes. He didn’t  _want_  to be in love with someone other than Ginny. He could envision the troubles this would bring, and he didn’t  _want_  them.  
  
 _Not this, not this on top of everything else!_  
  
But he knew it wouldn’t go away. If nothing else, the life-debts would always be there to remind him.  
  
And so he took a deep breath, and forced down the impulses to complain and ask for comfort—he had chosen this road, at least with part of him—and then looked up at Draco and managed a faint smile. He would tell him, of course. It wouldn’t be fair to keep it from him.  
  
And at the same time, he could show Draco why a sexual relationship between them could never work, why this really changed nothing.  
  
 _It will end his suspense over me. I can help him move on. And shouldn’t my highest priority be his happiness, when I’m really in love with him?_


	25. Points of Love, Points of Honor

Draco kept a careful eye on Harry. He knew  _something_  had made his eyes go wide, and his face look as though he had just stepped over the edge of an unexpected cliff. He planned to watch Harry until he knew what was wrong, and then insist that he confront it, or at least tell Draco about whatever it was, immediately.  
  
 _It couldn’t be the scar, could it?_  
  
But when Draco peered again at the scar through the remnants of Harry’s tattered robes, it seemed the same as it had when he looked the first time: a red line of skin that began at Harry’s shoulder and twisted down his flank, over his ribs, and finally stopped somewhere around the inner thigh. The life-debts did good healing work. Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t even need to look at it for long when she came around.  
  
 _But then she’ll ask inconvenient questions about it, won’t she?_  
  
Draco shot a quick glance over his shoulder. The matron seemed almost finished with Granger, who now wore a sling, and she would probably be working her way around the infirmary to Harry soon. And Draco found himself reluctant to either explain the scar or tell someone else the truth about the life-debts, which would only result in determined efforts to separate him and Harry—from Granger, if no one else. He was reluctant to entertain the idea of anything that would let Harry draw further away.  
  
And that included Harry’s own, blushing silence, his eyes now averted to the floor next to the bed instead of Draco.  
  
Draco made his decision. He had already told Madam Pomfrey that Harry’s wounds weren’t bad, which was true. A further lie would harm nothing.  
  
“Come,” he said, tugging at Harry’s wrist.  
  
“Pardon?” Harry looked up at him, wild-eyed as though Draco had just made a sexual innuendo.  
  
Draco blinked, but decided that now was not the time to tease Harry about his responsiveness. He tugged again, and Harry finally seemed to grasp what he wanted, looking from his own scar to Madam Pomfrey and back again. He nodded, stood, and slid off the infirmary bed. Granger, from the sudden turn of her head, noticed them go, but no one else did. And a moment later she was called off to her husband’s bedside to make him swallow a potion the matron insisted he needed, anyway.  
  
They stepped out into the corridor, and Draco darted a glance around just to make sure they really  _were_  alone. Then he drew his wand and cast a privacy ward for extra measure. He wouldn’t give Harry a chance to draw away because of imagined listeners, either.  
  
“Now,” he said, turning and facing Harry, keeping him lightly fenced in between his body and the wall. “Will you tell me why you looked as though your best friend had died a few minutes ago?”  
  
*  
  
Harry drew a deep breath, and then nodded. He had already made up his mind to tell Draco, hadn’t he? He had even decided what to say. It had to be spoken just right, or Draco would think up some way to get around it, or some reason why it didn’t matter.  
  
But this mattered. So much. Harry hadn’t tested the strength of the marriage vows he’d made to Ginny against the life-debts, but he was willing to wager they were as strong. After all, he and she had carefully chosen the sternest set, the set that could never be dissolved or even worked around.  
  
Draco leaned in and raised an eyebrow. He didn’t need to do or say anything more than that. Harry picked up his courage in both hands and began to speak.  
  
“I realized something just now,” he said quietly. “Something that might not make you happy.”  
  
Draco blinked rapidly several times. “So long as it’s not some nonsense about giving up on our friendship,” he said. “I think, after  _that_ , any question of separating from each other is academic. Isn’t it?”  
  
Harry had to smile at the sudden touch of uncertainty in Draco’s tone, and his protectiveness arose again. Here was a man who had endured ten years of insecurity. If Harry could prevent the return of those feelings, he would.   
  
“It depends on the sort of separation you mean,” said Harry. Draco still had a worried glint in his eyes—obvious if you knew where to look for it—and Harry couldn’t put the truth off any longer. “I’m in love with you.”  
  
He could watch the realization work in through Draco’s ears to the rest of his brain. His eyes blinked so quickly that it looked as though he were trying to keep back tears, and then he leaned forwards and his hands fell lightly on Harry’s shoulders. He was swaying, as though he would lose his balance any moment.  
  
“Harry,” he whispered. His voice thrilled with emotions Harry couldn’t examine, lest his own resolve to protect both Ginny and Draco weaken.  
  
Protection. That was what Draco most needed from him at the moment. Harry could give nothing more precious.  
  
He made his point by leaning in himself, scooping up a handful of Draco’s hair and palming his cheek with the same motion, and kissing him.   
  
He had meant the kiss to make a point. He had not known that it would catch him up, too, his first kiss with the man he loved, and that sparks of several different fires would be lit along his spine all at once. He pressed closer, realizing only vaguely that Draco wasn’t fighting to get away, but mimicking his actions. He was too focused on the new sensations to think about what that meant, though he knew they were part of the reason he was enjoying this so much. Closeness, and warmth, and an _encompassing_  he had never felt with Ginny, as though Draco embraced and forgave even those parts of him that had used the Unforgivables in battle—  
  
And then the itching started.  
  
Harry’s back exploded into fire, along with every inch of his ribs a moment later—save the skin where the scar ran—and he pulled away from Draco with a gasp. Draco kept his hands on Harry like glue or lead weights, staring dazedly into his eyes. Harry leaned back on the wall, trying to push away the itching and the angry buzzing of the strained marriage vows in his ears.  
  
It didn’t work. The vows had been meant to cling and punish until the erring husband or wife stepped safely back inside limits. Harry still wanted to kiss Draco, and he was still touching him, even if it wasn’t with desire, and he was still hard for him and thinking about bare pale skin and a world where he hadn’t married Ginny. He would have to break contact before the sensations retreated, and he would have to be back inside the same house with Ginny before they would leave him completely.  
  
“Why did you stop? Does my breath smell  _that_  bad?”  
  
Behind the joking tone in Draco’s voice was immense hurt. He probably thought Harry was yet another one of the lovers he’d had after Marian who hadn’t lasted, whom he couldn’t trust. Harry shook his head and rested his hand on Draco’s shoulder, cautiously, watching his eyes and not his lips. The itching dwindled to a tolerable level, and he found that he could shape coherent sentences again.  
  
“You’re not disgusting,” he said quietly. “It’s the marriage vows I made with Ginny. They’re the sternest kind—“  
  
“The kind that punish you when you touch someone else sexually?” Draco’s surprise and uncertainty had been replaced with disgust. “Why in the world would you do that? Why would  _anyone_  do that? Those vows existed to let parents take erring children to task back in the Dark Ages, not to govern the lives of adults!”  
  
Harry managed a chuckle. “I was very romantic and Gryffindor when I married Ginny and couldn’t imagine wanting anyone else. Why wouldn’t I have sworn to them? And she wanted to, as well.” He closed his eyes, partially because his gaze had started to slip lower and the warning snarl in his ears had intensified, and partially because he needed to gather his strength for what he wanted to say next. That kiss had shocked him in both good and bad ways.  
  
“I’m in love with you,” he repeated. “But it’s not going to change anything. It  _can’t_. Other than the fact that—“  
  
Draco’s hand had tightened on his shoulder blade hard enough to hurt. Harry winced, but he had his strength back now, and he could look and meet Draco incredibly angry, raging eye to calm and composed one.  
  
“Other than the fact that I want your happiness with every part of me that’s selfless,” Harry continued softly. “And maybe some parts that aren’t, even though I’d also like to demand that you sacrifice and wait for me. But that’s not fair. You need someone who can give you  _everything_  you want and need, Draco. That includes a sexual relationship. You wasted too many years inside a gray shell, chained to Marian and hating everything about yourself. I don’t want that to happen ever again. Find a lover who can make you happy, just as happy as I can make you, and also give himself or herself to you sexually. It would be better.”  
  
“And I’m just supposed to ignore the fact that you’re in love with me,” Draco said flatly.  
  
“Are  _you_  in love with  _me_?” Harry stared at him, and it was Draco’s turn to flush a bit and glance away.  
  
“Not that—I’m aware of,” he said carefully. “The feelings involved are rather delicate, after all, and it’s been some time since I’ve been able to express them.”  
  
“See?” Harry said.  
  
“See  _what_?” Draco stared back at him, his eyes widening and deepening like hurricanes with his fury. “I see you offering yourself as a martyr to me whether I want that as a gift or not!”  
  
“And I don’t want to be a martyr,” said Harry, shrugging. He was a bit calmer now. This was closer to his conception of what had to happen. “It would have been easier if I hadn’t fallen in love with you.”  
  
“Easier  _for whom_?” Draco demanded. “Especially since, no matter what I can or can’t call the state of my feelings right now, I know that I would rather have you in my bed and my life than any other person I’ve ever met?”  
  
“Easier for me,” said Harry. “The marriage vows will keep me from ever being with you, Draco. I’ll have to long and watch and wait, and that’s unfair and stupid and I wish it didn’t have to be that way—but I’d hate to see you make a sacrifice of yourself for me even more. Find someone else who will make you happy. There has to be someone else out there for you who’s better than I am.”  
  
“And if there  _isn’t_?” Draco’s face had hardened into a mask of rage, as if he thought Harry was giving up of his own free will.   
  
“I think there can be,” said Harry. “But regardless, the most we’ll ever be is friends. I told you about the marriage vows, and you saw them in action just now—“  
  
“Do you want me?”  
  
Harry managed to gesture to his groin, which was still painfully swollen. He could make a joke of this, and if Draco laughed, that might help him. “What does it look like?”  
  
“That’s only part of it,” said Draco, staring at him like a kestrel about to swoop down on a mouse. “ _Do you want me, Harry?_  For more than just sex? Do you want to spend time with me in the ways proper to a bound pair? Am I the most important person in your life? Would you do anything for me?”  
  
Harry’s hands betrayed him and reached out to cup Draco’s cheeks again. He stopped a few inches short of his skin, so that he wouldn’t actually touch him, but even the sight of Draco looking at him like that, fierce and proud and defiant and  _beloved_ , made him fill with a painful mixture of longing and bitterness.  
  
“Yes,” he whispered. “Or, at least, you’re as important as the children and Ginny. And it can’t be otherwise, Draco,” he hastened to add. “You know why. The life-debts can’t be dissolved, but the marriage vows can’t be, either.”  
  
“There has to be a way to get around that,” Draco insisted. “There was a way to nullify multiple life-debts all at once, by the willing gift of a wizard or witch. Why can’t there be a way to nullify marriage vows?”  
  
Harry frowned. Draco wasn’t taking the news the way he had hoped. “But there isn’t,” he said. “This kind of vow has existed for hundreds of years, and someone would have discovered a way around it if there  _was_  one. There’s not. I think you should accept that, and try to be happy. Find someone else—“  
  
*  
  
Draco gave Harry a revolted glare that shut him up immediately.  
  
 _Well, there’s that, at least. I wouldn’t want the man I think I’m falling in love with to be completely stupid._  
  
“I don’t want anyone else,” said Draco levelly. “I want you. We are going to find a way around that marriage vow, and then we’ll have each other.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes as though he were striving for patience. “Draco,” he said. “Find someone else.”  
  
“No,” Draco said. It was so very simple. Harry was in love with him, therefore that was a reason for Draco to strive to his utmost. Surely everyone else in the world would understand that? Why did Draco get the one person who couldn’t?   
  
 _Harry’s lucky he has other attributes to make up for that._    
  
“You told me that you wanted me to be happy,” he continued. “It’s how I’m fulfilling one of my life-debts to you. Well. You’re necessary to my happiness, so I won’t stop until you’re completely mine.”  
  
Harry blinked, looking bewildered. “But you don’t  _know_  that’s true,” he argued, as if this were all a matter of logic. “I could be necessary to your happiness and yet stay your friend. Surely another lover would just increase the total of your happiness, because it would be one more person in your life whom you could share something with?”  
  
Draco had no prohibitions holding him back from touching Harry, so he reached out and cupped his face as he had the evening they found out about the life-debts. Harry started to rest on the palm, then drew back, wary and alert, wearing the expression of a man pursued by a kicked hornet hive.  
  
Draco snarled under his breath, condemning Harry and the Weasley’s younger and more foolish Gryffindor selves for ruining the easy trust he had with the present Harry. He had the right to.  _He was having the dreams about me even then, he said. He should have known it would come to this someday._  
  
“Tell me it wouldn’t tear you up inside to see men parading through the door and into my bed,” Draco whispered.  
  
“It would,” said Harry. “But I would get over it. I’d have to. I want you happy more than I care about making myself happy.”  
  
His green eyes were wide and utterly sincere.   
  
Draco froze. He knew Harry had no idea what a self-revealing thing he’d just said.  
  
And suddenly, some of the few things he  _hadn’t_  understood about Harry’s behavior over the past weeks made sense. Why he’d agreed to send George Weasley into death when he must have known the burden would weigh on him and he could never tell the truth to any of his adopted family. Why he’d agreed to go to therapy. Why he’d sometimes touched Draco without hesitation, sometimes held himself back as if thinking of his wife.  
  
He was trying to make everyone happy except himself. He had shouldered the burden without even thinking about it, likely, and when Draco became important to him, Draco’s emotions became his to safeguard, just one more boulder to pick up and carry. He balanced them as best he could, and when it seemed as though nothing he could do was right, he made hasty and miserable compromises. The Weasleys and Granger probably picked at Harry’s patience and strength like vultures feeding on a decaying corpse bit by bit, and never realized it.  
  
Neither had Draco, when he demanded Harry’s time and attention and wanted to win the contests he seemed to be having with Ginny Weasley. He had seen Harry worn down, but not known how guilty a part he was playing in it.  
  
 _Well. That stops right now._    
  
“Harry,” he said. “I hope that you never need to say anything like that again. And right now, I have something to ask of you.”  
  
Harry blinked in startlement, then relaxed. “Oh, yes,” he said. “That sixth life-debt. I do rather owe that to you.” His eyes were bright, and Draco swallowed sickness—not because Harry was less than beautiful at the moment, but because his eagerness came from the opportunity to do things for someone  _else_ , not just because it was Draco or because he wanted to be rid of the responsibility of the life-debts.  
  
 _So long as he’s thinking about serving other people, he doesn’t have to face up to the mess he’s making of his own life.  
  
But that’s done. _  
  
Draco had avoided pushing so far, but now he was going to. And not for the sake of his own claim to Harry—at least, not directly. Harry had done the protecting so far, until Draco reversed matters by saving his life tonight. And that trend would continue until Harry proved himself capable of sparing the strength to guard Draco again.  
  
“You’re making the same promise that I made to you,” Draco said.  
  
“Five minutes of my time while you speak under Veritaserum?” Harry asked.  
  
“Not that,” said Draco, grinding his teeth against the tirade he wanted to spout at Harry’s defensive mechanisms. They’d been well-practiced for years and years, and Draco himself had fallen for them. It was no wonder Harry thought that might happen again. He made an effort to speak calmly, choking back the defensive fury that was in part against the Weasleys and Granger and in part against himself and in part against whoever had taught Harry to behave like this in the first place.  _Maybe I should blame the Dark Lord_. “The promise that I made to seek my own welfare, and do whatever I needed to to become happy. Only you’re applying it to  _your_  happiness, not mine.”  
  
He waited.  
  
Harry’s eyes turned a deep, distressed green.  
  
Draco firmly touched the side of Harry’s face, and nodded.  
  
“Please,” Harry whispered intensely, as though Draco had just made a threat to kill his children. “I can’t—I know that I can’t refuse to pay that if you demand it, but I can persuade you out of it. Please? Ask something else.”  
  
“No,” Draco whispered back, and clasped the other side of Harry’s face, holding him still when Harry tried to shake his head in denial. “This is what I want. This is what you’re going to give me.”  
  
“Ask something else.”  
  
 _God_ , it was hard to ignore the hoarse pleading in his tone, but Draco managed. He held Harry’s gaze evenly. “It’s not so hard a request to fulfill,” he said. “Most wizards would be jumping at the chance to give such an easy payment. Why aren’t you, Harry?”  
  
“You know why.”  
  
“I want to hear you  _say_  it.”  
  
Harry swallowed several times, each time opening his mouth as though he were going to speak, and then closing it and swallowing again. He seemed to have a piece of jagged glass stuck in his throat.  
  
Finally, he said, “You know better than anyone else, because you know about George. Draco, I’m just barely managing you and Ginny and the children and the war as it is. I can make you all satisfied, and I can give my best effort to fighting the war, but only if nothing else piles on top of me. That’s why I was so upset when I realized I’d fallen in love with you. That’s why I—that’s the selfish reason I want to see you settled with someone else, so I’m not subjected to temptation and torn up about  _this_ , too. Please, ask something else.”  
  
“Did I ask to be managed?” Draco said, being sure to keep his voice soothing. “Did your wife?”  
  
“I  _have_  to,” Harry snapped. “I can’t lose either of you, I can’t hurt either of you, I can’t make you unhappy—“  
  
“Do you know how much it hurts me,” said Draco, and it was easy to say the words despite how self-baring they were, “when I watch you suffer?”  
  
Harry turned his head away. “And I’ll suffer more if you have me make this promise,” he said. “I don’t have  _time_  to think of myself right now, Draco. I’m just too busy. That will come later. A month or two, and maybe you’ll have found someone you like, at least temporarily, and Hermione and I will have tracked the Masked Lady down. Then I can rest. But—“  
  
“And maybe that won’t happen,” said Draco, “at least as far as the Masked Lady is concerned. I can promise you that I won’t have settled down with a new lover. I don’t intend to date anyone else. I intend to find a way around these marriage vows, and give you as much peace as I can.   
  
“I do understand the burdens you’re struggling with, Harry. But I know, too, that you’ll only go on adding them on, not resting. Your wife will come up with some new crisis, or one of your children will get sick, or someone will dream up a project that just  _requires_  the involvement of the Boy-Who-Lived. And you’ll agree. You always do. And then will come the day when you can’t get up anymore, and all the people who are standing on your shoulders and don’t know it will fall down. You need someone who makes you defend yourself before it’s too late. That’s what I’m doing.”  
  
Harry said nothing at all. He stood with head bowed. He wasn’t crying, but there was a pale tinge to his face that Draco might have thought came from the wound if he didn’t know better.  
  
Draco softened his voice further. He really, really didn’t want Harry to think that Draco was against him. Nothing could be further from the truth. He was Harry’s only true ally against a world that wanted to devour him—other than his children, maybe, but they were too young to help—and Harry had to keep trusting him.  
  
“Harry Potter, I request and require that you fight for your own happiness as hard as you’re fighting for mine.” It wasn’t fair to require him to fight as hard as he was for his wife’s, Draco thought. If he gave more to her, that was his choice. But Draco would not allow  _their_  efforts, as a pair, to be unequal.  
  
 _A pair_. He licked his lips in excitement and longing. That meant more than he had thought, more than he had thought it  _could_. He had not expected Harry to fall in love with him long before he was ready to become Draco’s lover.  
  
But he had, and the marriage vows were a problem, but not an insurmountable one. Draco refused to let them be.  
  
Harry shivered. “I’ll need your help,” he said dully, as if that were shameful to confess. “If I start collapsing under the extra weight, I’ll need your help.” His repetition of phrases seemed constant and involuntary; they marked his powerlessness more clearly than anything else Draco had seen tonight.  
  
“You’ll have it,” said Draco, and kissed him, and, stepping back, dissolved the privacy ward. He continued to watch Harry in silence for some moments. Harry looked up at him, and though his eyes remained cloudy and dull, he nodded, once.  
  
That was all the promise Draco required. Harry Potter had a way of sticking to his vows.  
  
He strolled off gently down the corridor. Harry would need some time to think about this alone. Draco would fetch his broom, which he’d abandoned on the outskirts of the school in his haste to get Harry to the infirmary.  
  
Hope lengthened his strides. He could do this.  _They_  could do this. They  _would_.  
  
*  
  
Harry waited with his eyes shut for some time, because he had to. Then he looked up, turned to face the infirmary doorway, and asked, “How long were you watching, Hermione?”  
  
Hermione stepped into plain sight. The sling around her right arm made Harry wince, but the look of accusation on her face went home like an arrow.  
  
He glanced away.  
  
“Long enough to hear that you want to cheat on your wife,” Hermione said, voice clipped. “Long enough to understand that you should have stayed far, far away from Draco Malfoy.” She paused, and took a deep breath.  
  
“You’ll tell Ginny about this, Harry,” she said. “ _All_  of it. Or I will.”  
  
Harry looked at her then. Her eyes were full of rejection—not for him, but for that part of him dedicated to Draco.   
  
She turned and walked away.  
  
Harry stood quite still for a moment, then began to shift the weight of his commitments again, carefully, because he had to do it alone.


	26. Corpse of a Marriage

Harry let the door fall gently shut behind him. He would have to have his conversation with Ginny now—it was already the middle of the morning—although weariness pulled at him like the wings of a lethifold. He could hear her moving quietly about the kitchen. Apparently James and Al were still asleep, or asleep again after breakfast, or perhaps over at Molly’s.  
  
 _Over at Molly’s_ , Harry decided, when he stepped into the kitchen and saw it clean of any traces of milk, cereal, orange juice, or pumpkin juice. Not even a  _Scourgify_  could make it look this neat when the children had been eating.  
  
Ginny, balancing Lily against her arm as she fed her, started when she saw him. Then her mouth drew tight, and she nodded once. “I’ll put her down in a minute,” she whispered. “She’s almost asleep. Then we can talk.”  
  
Harry nodded absently and sat down at the table, trying to decide if he was hungry. He didn’t think so. The collision with the dragon’s tail seemed to have knocked the hunger out of his stomach along with his ribs out of their proper alignment.  
  
He wondered what Draco would say about that—probably gripe, it was what he did—and then banished the fond smile he could feel forming on his face. Ginny. This was about Ginny now. He would tell her the pure and absolute truth, and let her make the decision about what they should do.  
  
He was startled to feel an odd, cool sensation a moment later, as though his entire left side had been plunged into running water. He glanced down, and felt the scar shiver at the same time as it gave him the cool sensation again. It wasn’t entirely pleasurable, but it wasn’t painful, and it had the effect of scattering his thoughts.  
  
 _I suppose this is one way to ensure that I focus on my own happiness, too_ , Harry thought, but he had ignored stranger things. He faced the doorway, even as the tingling from the scar grew more insistent, and waited until Ginny stepped back through, brushing her hands together briskly to remove small bits of baby-debris.  
  
“She’s asleep,” she said, sitting down across from Harry. “And the boys are at the Burrow. What happened?”  
  
“The warning Hermione received was correct,” Harry said simply. “The Masked Lady attacked Hogwarts, with dragons.”  
  
Ginny’s hand twitched, lifted halfway to her face, and then dropped again, as if the shock were too much for such a mundane expression as covering her mouth or eyes. “Did any of the children get hurt?”  
  
Harry shook his head. “The Masked Lady didn’t seem to have expected such opposition, and she fled. But Hermione’s arm was in a sling, and Ron had to have several healing potions.” He hesitated, then added, “And I got torn up by a Hungarian Horntail, and Draco saved my life.”  
  
Ginny’s hands twined tightly together now, apparently for comfort. “I see,” she said. “And how many life-debts is it that you owe each other now?”  
  
“Six altogether,” said Harry. “Three on his part, three on mine. He’s asked for, and received, payments for all of his. There’s still one of mine outstanding.” He met Ginny’s gaze and forged into the most difficult part. “And I discovered that I’m in love with him.”  
  
Ginny’s eyes shut, very gently.   
  
“You wanted to be,” she said.  
  
“I didn’t,” Harry said. Shouting would do no good, he thought. Rational, calm, as reasonable as possible. That was the way to go. But he wouldn’t let her think things that weren’t true. “It makes everything harder. And of course the marriage vows bind me to your side. You’re the only spouse I’ll ever have, Gin. I don’t intend to betray you.”  
  
“No, it just happens anyway,” Ginny muttered, and looked at him again. There was a shine to her eyes that might have been tears. If they were, she was keeping them tightly veiled. “I need—something more than this, Harry,” she said, with a vague gesture of her hand. “Something more than this empty exercise where you continue to make excuses for things you claim you can’t help, and then you go off and do them again.”  
  
Harry let out his breath. This was actually a better reaction than he had anticipated. “You have suggestions?”  
  
“No,” said Ginny, and her mouth had turned into a flat line. “The therapy and the Dreamless Sleep potion were it. What do  _you_  propose to do?”  
  
The cold tingling of the scar on his ribs was really quite annoying, Harry thought as he shifted in his seat, only as ignorable as the taste of mint in his mouth. “Not sleep with Draco, obviously,” he said. “Spend more time around you and the children.” The scar tingled again, but Harry refused to say aloud that he was seeking his own happiness. Ginny was likely to snap that he did nothing but, and Harry couldn’t stand to hear that right now. “Help Hermione with the war; that might give me something else to think about besides Draco.”  _Not likely, with him always haunting your mind_. “Continue with the therapy and the use of Dreamless Sleep potion, since you asked. Help you through your grief over George.”  
  
Ginny glanced down, picking at the surface of the table. “I notice that nowhere in your list is ‘sleep with your wife,’” she said.  
  
Harry froze and then swallowed. The tingling of the scar had multiplied, so that now it seemed to have an echo on the right side of his body. But he wasn’t paying attention to it; he wouldn’t begin scratching madly in the middle of a serious discussion with Ginny, which had suddenly turned towards the sour again. “Would you really  _want_  me to, in this condition?” he asked.  
  
“What condition?”  
  
“This condition of lusting over and falling in love with someone else.” Harry held her eyes, though it was difficult, especially with the scar buzzing behind his teeth now.   
  
“You think you’re in love,” Ginny said.  
  
“I know I am.”  
  
And Ginny spun to her feet, seized an empty bottle—of Firewhiskey, maybe?—that had stood on the counter, and hurled it against the wall. “I  _hate_  this!” she screamed, loudly enough that Harry tensed, expecting a complementary scream from Lily any moment. But no wail followed, only the sound of Ginny’s voice, half-words and half-sobs. “It couldn’t just—our life couldn’t just  _continue_ , could it? Or even just continue with a  _war_  in it and my brother  _dying_! There always has to be some  _fucking_ complication! I hate this—I hate Draco Malfoy—I hate—“ And then she was crying flat out, gripping the table as if it alone could prevent her from sliding to the floor.  
  
Harry stood up and came awkwardly around the table to cradle her in his arms. He wondered if he should, if he had the right to, but if he hadn’t, then he would have endured a tirade about that later.  
  
Ginny clung to him, and shook and shook and shook, her voice the raw, helpless sound of Al’s when he’d been teased and harassed by James all day. Harry stroked her hair and worked to hold her up through sheer strength, since all her muscles seemed to have gone limp. Finally, he picked her up and carried her into the library, where they could sit down on a sofa together.  
  
Through it all, his own helplessness twisted in him like a blade, and the scar buzzed and buzzed and buzzed until the cool tingle of it occupied half his thoughts. Harry almost wished it hurt instead. He was better at ignoring pain than simple peculiarity.  
  
“You’re going,” Ginny whispered, when Harry had spent ten minutes trying to find the right combination of words that would let her know he loved her and stop the crying. Her voice was small and simple and exhausted now. “I’m trying to keep hold of you, to keep our love alive, but you’re going.”  
  
Harry, startled by both her speaking and another surge of shivering from the scar, had a sudden clear thought:  _Is this really what love feels like? I don’t think it is._  
  
He buried the thought, shoved it behind several impenetrable doors and piled rocks in front of it. No. He was  _not_  leaving Ginny behind. He was not doubting her love for him. There were certain things he could not do, not even for Draco.  
  
“I’m not,” he whispered, cradling the back of her head and kissing her brow. The scar buzz sent his lips cutting into his teeth. “I’m sorry. What can I change, Ginny? Tell me what to do.”  
  
“I’m so tired,” Ginny said, voice almost reduced to a slurred murmur against his neck. “I’ve made so many suggestions, and they haven’t worked.  _You_  come up with something now.” Her hands curled around his neck, and she clung there, waiting to be comforted.  
  
 _Like a spoiled child—_  
  
Harry buried that thought, too. Was it the scar introducing these strange concepts into his head? He felt growing anger against Draco for demanding this particular life-debt. He just didn’t have  _time_  right now to acknowledge it. He would have to, because he had no choice, but he really had no time for it.  
  
“All right,” he said, and closed his eyes and thought as hard as he could, hoping for some sudden inspiration to hit him.  
  
The scar kept cutting through any chains of logic he formed, rattling and shaking his head, and the words  _your own happiness_  began repeating in a dull mantra. Harry wondered irritably if one of his own suggestions to right matters should be “killing Draco.”  
  
“I think,” he said at last, “that I may have fulfilled my obligations to the Malfoys as far as the first life-debt goes. I’ve learned the reason that Draco was framed for murder, and while I haven’t captured the people who actually did it, stopping the Masked Lady will stop them.”  
  
Ginny tensed on his lap, but said only, “Malfoy might not agree.”  
  
“Narcissa was the one who claimed the debt, so she’s the one who has the right to say when it’s fulfilled.” Harry shrugged, as much as he could when holding his wife so close.  _Your own happiness, your own happiness!_  He might say those words in a minute, and though Ginny probably wouldn’t take them the wrong way, Harry hated the amount of control this one debt appeared to be exercising over him already. “I have an excuse to stay away from them now. Oh, I can’t cut off contact with them altogether,” he added, as Ginny’s face suddenly shone. “Another life-debt payment was a friendship with Draco. But there’s no reason for me to spend every morning over there doing research, when we’ve learned—“  
  
His tongue escaped him for a moment, and tangled behind his teeth. Harry coughed to cover it, and fought grimly against the sudden conviction of what he had to do.  
  
 _The debt wants me to make a promise that will assure my happiness. Bastard!_  Harry wasn’t sure if he meant Draco with the word, or the particular debt the scar represented, or life in general.  
  
“Yes?” Ginny prompted him.  
  
“We’ve learned what we needed to learn about this thing creating the fading and the visions in mirrors and the dreams between us,” said Harry in determination, though his mouth tried to twist away from him and say,  _I want to just spend time with Al and Teddy, because that will make me happiest right now, and I want to spend a morning thinking about Draco and nothing else._  
  
“ _Between_  you?” Ginny’s voice was shrill. “You—you told me that you were the only one who had the dreams!”  
  
Harry grimaced. If he hadn’t been fighting a losing battle with the debt, he would have known better than to say that. “The dreams have changed,” he said. “Not all of them are about sex, but Draco’s having them too.”  
  
“The  _exact_  same dreams?”  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
Ginny’s head fell limply against Harry’s chest, as if all the hope had been drained away. “Please take Dreamless Sleep as long as you can,” she mumbled. “Harry,  _please_. I don’t ask for much, you know that.”  
  
 _You do_ , Harry wanted to say, but that was the debt’s fault; he was more aware of the cool pulsing along his ribs now than he was of the warmth and weight of his wife in his arms. And any moment now, he would say something that would deeply sour relations between them. Already, the impulse to say  _No_  to her request was trying to take him over.  
  
 _Goddamnit_.  
  
In silence, Harry made the promise to himself to spend time with Teddy today, doing nothing but play games or go to Diagon Alley or whatever else his godson wanted to do. He would do it regardless of what else happened, regardless of what Ginny or Draco or George’s ghost demanded from him.  
  
The cool tingle retreated to what was almost a pleasant sensation. Harry blinked, and then shook his head, but when Ginny wanted to know if that meant he was refusing her, he murmured, “Of course not, love. I’ll take the Dreamless Sleep tonight and as many other nights as it’s safe. What else would you like?”  
  
Ginny suddenly took a deep breath, and said, “You’ll do it.”  
  
“Yes.” Perhaps Harry simply had a clearer perspective now that the scar was no longer trying to inundate his brain, but he thought it was odd she had given in with so little fuss. He frowned. “Love, what’s wrong?”  
  
“I’ll—I just wanted—“ Ginny shivered a few times, and then absently caressed his arm. “I just wanted to know that you would,” she whispered.  
  
Harry blinked, but he was all too glad to think they had avoided several deeper problems with such a simple solution—that Ginny had not started blaming him for falling in love with Draco, for example, or that he would have been required to have an argument about staying away from Malfoy Manor altogether. He proceeded to spend some time stroking her hair, before he stood and prepared to visit Andromeda and Teddy. He could check on their health and keep his promise to himself at the same time.  
  
Ginny let him go with little more than a deep kiss and a sigh of relief. Her hand did tighten in his hair, but overall she seemed to trust to his willingness to keep his promises.  
  
 _I do that_ , Harry thought as he Apparated.  _Even the ones that somebody had no right to ask of me in payment for a life-debt._  
  
*  
  
It was occurring to Draco that he might, after all, be in love.  
  
He sat in the nursery, next to Scorpius’s bed—his son had fallen asleep after a round of play intense enough to leave Draco staggering—and held his arm over his eyes. Not that the ceiling was so ornamented as to provide a grand distraction, but he thought it better to give himself no escape from his thoughts.  
  
He had assumed that of course he wasn’t in love with Harry, or else that he didn’t know, because he hadn’t felt the single grand, overwhelming realization that Harry had.  
  
But since he’d never loved someone romantically, how would he know?  
  
He had, of course, never loved Marian. Lust and a basic politeness, when they could still get along, did well enough. And his lovers were about physical expression of the needs Marian couldn’t meet, and sometimes about annoying her or chasing the forbidden. There had never been place or room in Draco’s life for  _overwhelming_.  
  
So perhaps he wouldn’t recognize it when it came to him? Or perhaps he felt it differently than Harry did, and judging his own emotions by the same standards naturally wouldn’t work?  
  
Experimentally, he tried to picture Harry separating from his wife  _and_  cutting off contact with him—not taking another lover, so Draco had nothing to be physically jealous about, but also refusing to spend time with him, not being there to joke with, not being in arm’s reach when Draco wanted to share the wonder that was his son or his own survival, not encouraging Draco to reach for his potential…  
  
A snarl escaped Draco’s teeth, and he opened his eyes in startlement as his hands clenched down on the arms of the chair and splinters drove into the palms. Carefully, he released the hold and then glanced over at Scorpius. He was asleep, his lips parted, a soft baby bubble of spit and air having escaped them to gleam on his cheek. Draco’s heart contracted painfully.  
  
And it went on contracting when he thought of Harry parting from him. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe. He needed Harry in his life, whether they ever became more intimate than the kiss Harry had given him last night and the brush of skin to scar. This was a requirement, not a luxury. He would have given up the chance to see anyone in the world save his mother and his son in order to see Harry.  
  
He remembered the life-debt promise that Harry would continue in friendship with Draco. He seized on it with a greed that startled him. There was at least that, no matter what else tried to part them.  
  
 _But couldn’t we still be friends—_  
  
Not unless a friend was someone he trusted to lay his heart open and go through it with a dozen small knives. Not unless he would have handed his wand over to a friend without a second thought. Not unless he could watch a friend toss Scorpius in the air and not be alarmed.  
  
His relationships with Blaise and Millicent had never been like that, or with Pansy, not back in the very headiest and closest days of Slytherin House. If his experience with Harry was simple friendship, then Draco had never known simple friendship before.  
  
And the other close ties in his life—to Lucius and to Snape—shared nothing in common with his tie to Harry, either. And whatever he felt, it was the very opposite of his fear around Bellatrix and the Dark Lord.  
  
Draco shivered. It was a strange and peculiar thing, to know the isolated Draco Malfoy might have fallen in love, and might not realize it for certain only because he’d never experienced it before.  
  
He still, perhaps, could not have Harry’s degree of certainty; Harry had been in love before and would recognize his own behavior under the influence of such an emotion. But he also didn’t want to make up excuses and categories to shove what he felt into.   
  
He was in love.  
  
And that meant—  
  
That meant he had to show it.  
  
Draco sat up and clapped his hands. A house-elf appeared at once, with a muffled enough sound that Scorpius never stopped snoring.  
  
“Bring me the register of magical creatures bred in Britain in the last year,” Draco commanded in a haughty whisper, and sat back with a satisfied smile as the elf nodded and vanished.  
  
Draco already knew what he was looking for, but it never hurt to confirm his opinion. Besides, he needed to check on prices.  
  
He was indeed going to buy Harry a snowy owl.   
  
But not just any snowy owl. The one he should have had all along, and the one he particularly needed right now.  
  
 _That’s a sign of love, isn’t it?_  Draco thought, as he began to flip through the large, leather-bound book the house-elf had handed him a moment later.  _Giving your lover what he needs, not just what he wants?_  
  
*  
  
Harry ducked behind a tree, his heart hammering with excitement, his head spinning, his mood more than a little giddy. He’d been through such extremes of emotion in the last twenty-four hours—was it really only a day ago that his children had been attacked in the kitchen of his own home?—and then got little enough sleep that he probably should have been lying down.  
  
But he didn’t care.  
  
There was no activity from in front of the tree. Carefully, Harry edged his face around the trunk—  
  
And a mudball struck him solidly in the chin.  
  
Flailing, Harry kept his balance with a massive effort. He  _did_  flick his wand, and several of the mudballs he’d had piled at his feet leaped around the tree and attacked his opponent, who responded with a pattering flight and many squeals of, “Not fair! Not fair!”  
  
Laughing, Harry wiped the caked substance off his face and watched his godson with a grin. Teddy fled through a massive meadow that had been the Tonks lawn an hour ago and now looked like the remains of a churned battlefield. Mud coated the grass, and rivulets of water, perfect for packing the material into balls, coursed everywhere between high and precarious furrows.  
  
Andromeda had reassured Harry that she and her grandson were both fine, but there was a sadness about her eyes, and a relief when Harry had said he would take Teddy, that made him doubly glad he’d come. Then he hadn’t the heart to refuse Teddy when he suggested flooding the backyard, enchanting the ground to soften, and having a mud-fight.  
  
And not the heart to refuse himself, either, if he told the truth.  
  
Teddy, as an underage wizard with a practice wand, couldn’t give Harry as hard a time as Harry could give him. From the number of mudballs in the air to the number of falls they’d both taken, Harry was leading the way. He never used his full strength, of course, but nothing made Teddy angrier than the impression that an adult wasn’t taking him seriously and holding back to  _let_  him win. So Harry had found a middle ground that satisfied them both, and which took off the edge of the manic excitement caused by sudden alterations of mood and too little sleep.  
  
Suddenly Teddy shouted an incantation, muffled by the dirt in his mouth, and two of the balls still chasing him reversed and flung themselves at Harry. Harry aimed his wand and coolly blasted them apart, then pretended not to notice the sudden stirring of a rivulet behind him.  
  
He still yelped when the cold water blasted him and soaked under his robes, though. There was no refusing to respond to  _that_  surprise.  
  
Teddy, bent over laughing and laughing, made a tempting target, and for this hour or so, Harry had banished his ability to resist temptation. A simple spell that he often used for making fools of pure-blood or Muggleborn extremists who might incite others to riot, and the ground heaved and twisted and deposited Teddy flat on his face, arse in the air. Harry twirled his wand and grinned, then conjured two small monkeys that leaped on Teddy, hooting, and held him down.  
  
“Do you surrender?” Harry called out.  
  
Teddy tried to respond, but he really did have a mouthful of mud this time and couldn’t make the sounds clearly enough. Harry shook his head sadly. The monkeys jumped up and down on Teddy’s neck and rump and shrieked in excitement.  
  
“That’s not good enough,” Harry said.  
  
Teddy, with an enormous effort, turned his face to the side and shouted, “Yes, I surrender! Get them off me!”  
  
Harry banished the monkeys out of existence—he thought they sounded disappointed when they went—and then pounced on Teddy and hugged him. The wild energy was gone now, leaving behind the good kind of fatigue that Harry usually felt after a full day. He yawned, and sat down, lazily beginning to restore the lawn to some semblance of normality.  
  
He was startled when Teddy hugged him again, hard enough that his wand movements were spoiled and he had grasshoppers instead of grass. Harry corrected that, then returned the fierce embrace and asked, “What was that for?”  
  
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Teddy said into his shoulder. “I don’t want you to die.”  
  
Shaken and touched both at once, Harry bowed his head and slung an arm around his godson’s shoulders. Teddy sat against him, snuggling, though he would have been horrified if anyone called it that, while Harry sent the water back into the pond’s boundaries and dried the mud into harmless dust.  
  
He caught a glimpse of Andromeda watching them from the window. Her own face was weary and set, her eyes full of yearning. Harry supposed she was missing Tonks. She had never got over the loss of her daughter, any more than George had over the loss of his twin.  
  
But they were survivors, all of them. George had lived until he had no choice. Harry was bearing up under his burdens, and had decided it might not be a bad idea to take the time to make himself happy now and again—especially when it was concealed from Ginny under the guise of making someone  _else_  happy. Andromeda had committed herself to the task of raising her grandson, when she could have refused and asked Harry to do it. She’d climb past the emotions that afflicted her right now and go on.  
  
He saluted Andromeda with his wand. She nodded at him, and turned away.  
  
*  
  
“But what  _is_  it?”  
  
Harry smiled as he let himself into the house. He was in such a good mood after the three hours he’d spent with Teddy that even the excited sound of James’s voice, which usually promised object damage at best and mayhem at worst, couldn’t dampen his spirits. He strode into the drawing room, caught his eldest son up, and enchanted him to hover in the air. James promptly floated towards the walls, from which he could kick off with much glee. It wasn’t flying, but it was, as far as he was concerned, the next best thing.  
  
Ginny greeted him with a strained smile. She had Lily in one arm, and Al hunched on her lap. Harry picked Al up and hugged him, so tightly that his son gave a little muffled exclamation. When Harry looked again, Al was staring at him with brilliant eyes. Harry tried to think how long it had been since he hugged Al like that, for sheer joy, and thought it had been far too long. The panicked embrace of yesterday morning didn’t count.  
  
“I love you, Daddy,” Al whispered, so that only Harry could hear. He had already discovered James made fun of him when he said that.  
  
“I love you, too,” Harry said back, and turned away to finally stare at what seemed to have attracted everyone’s attention. It sat in the middle of the room with a cloth over it, but he could see the cloth swelled out at the top of the thing and then fell in loose waves to the sides. His puzzlement increased. He glanced at Ginny and raised an eyebrow.  
  
“It—was delivered,” she said tightly. “By a  _Malfoy_  house-elf.”  
  
Outrage flayed Harry’s throat like bile at the tone she gave the name, but he was holding his child. He was not about to show animosity to Al’s mother by tightening his grip or allowing a grimace to cross his face. He just nodded, ducked a happily flailing James, and then stepped forwards and tugged the cloth off.  
  
“Harry!” Ginny screamed, making Al flinch at the noise and bury his face against Harry’s robes. “There could be any number of hexes—“  
  
“I  _trust_  Draco,” Harry said, because letting that pass uncountered was more than he could bear, and faced the shape again.  
  
It was a birdcage. He should have known it would be. And inside sat a snowy owl—but with a hood over its head. Harry blinked, as he wondered for one insane moment if the owl was trained for hawking. Those were the only birds he had heard of that wore hoods.  
  
Letters popped up in front of him, bright cloudy sparks of blue and red, and swam into words.  
  
 _Dear Harry,  
  
This is a special type of owl called the Guardian Angel, bred to protect and defend one single human. She’ll still deliver post, but she’s also yours—and will make you hers, from what the seller told me. The snowy you owned during the war was probably an earlier type of her, but untrained. Guardian Angels imprint on the first person they see after certain spells are cast and the hood is put on. Make sure that she’s looking at you when you pull it off. I would be extremely upset to find that she’d bonded to your wife or something, No Weasley deserves her. Besides, I spent quite a lot of Galleons on her.  
  
Love,  
Draco._  
  
Harry had to close his own eyes when the message was finished. The continuing prejudice towards Ginny’s family, the mention of the cost of the gift, the fact that he had bought an owl who would aid Harry in keeping his promise…all of it was so very  _Draco.  
  
The “love” is new, though._  
  
Harry licked his lips and turned to put Al gently on the floor. He unlocked the cage door, ignoring Ginny’s shriek of alarm, and swiftly reached in and pulled the hood away even as the owl began to shift.  
  
The large, intense golden eyes locked on him.  
  
Harry gasped as he saw flecks of green rise up like a storm from the bottom of the owl’s eyes, tumble around the black in the center, and then fall back to gleam in the corners of her gaze. Her shifting feet clutched the perch sternly, and she uttered a single, soft, “ _Hu_.”  
  
And then she spread her wings. Harry pulled back quickly, his heart beating so hard that it hurt, cast a Cushioning Charm on his arm, and held it out.  
  
She ignored the invitation and fluttered to his shoulder. Harry winced in anticipation, but her talons didn’t cut him. Perhaps they were soft to the Guardian Angel’s owner, he thought in a daze. The green flecks shone in her eyes as she stared steadily at him, wings still beating to keep her balance. Then she dropped them and put a possessive foot near his throat.  
  
Harry had never felt so much controlled strength near him, intent on a fierce protectiveness. Perhaps his parents had held him like this, once, but of course he was too young to remember it. All the breath left his lungs, and more so when he saw cloudy colored letters forming by magic in front of the owl’s breast feathers.  
  
 _Did I mention that Guardian Angels are also extremely careful of their charges’ happiness? They’ll protect them against anyone who threatens that happiness—even the owners themselves. Even me.  
  
This is insurance that I can’t harm you any more by leaning on you too much, Harry.  
  
I love you.  
  
Draco._  
  
“Bastard,” Harry whispered, but his throat was tight with joy, and the wound he’d taken when Draco said he wasn’t sure if he loved him and carefully ignored since closed. He raised one hand to touch the Angel’s feathers, and she dipped her head and rubbed her beak against his cheekbone.  
  
“Why did Malfoy give you such a dangerous present?” Ginny asked, fury apparent in her voice. “What if she attacks the children?”  
  
“She’ll do what I tell her to, I think,” Harry said softly. “Won’t you, girl?”  
  
He was startled when she bobbed her head in a nod, but then had to smile. Hedwig had often seemed to respond the same way, though not usually with such human gestures.  
  
“She could hurt—“  
  
“Goddamn it, Ginny, she will not,” Harry snapped, his impatience overflowing. “Draco has a son himself. He wouldn’t endanger a small child. He knows how much my children mean to me.”  
  
“And not how much  _I_  mean to you. Obviously.” Ginny turned away with a sob of fury.  
  
“Mummy?” James said uncertainly.  
  
Harry spelled James back to land on the floor, and then turned and picked up Al. Ginny had taken Lily out of the room. For once, he felt no inclination to go after her.  
  
Draco had taken the initiative to show Harry that he didn’t just value him for what Harry could do for him.  
  
Draco had protected Harry against  _himself_.  
  
Draco was in love with him.  
  
No one could take that away, and Harry was not inclined to let Ginny try right now. He wanted to go out in the backyard, and let his owl fly, and spend time with his children. He had almost forgotten what happiness tasted like.  
  
“I want to name the owl, Daddy,” said James, with a large amount of false innocence. “Can I call her Doesn’t Like Al? Because I don’t think she does.”  
  
Harry said firmly, “She likes Al as much as you,” lifted his younger son to rest against him, and then turned and looked at the calm green-golden eyes that never left him, even as she did a little dance on his dipping shoulder. “Besides, I think  _I’ll_  be naming the owl.”  
  
The world seemed breathless with joy, and despite the fact that this made things harder, because Draco wouldn’t go free of him to find someone else now and he and Harry  _still_  couldn’t have sex and Ginny would probably hate his Guardian Angel, Harry still felt like laughing, because of the one simple fact that gave him the breathlessness.  
  
 _Draco’s in love with me.  
  
And God, I’m in love with him.  
  
I can’t leave him. I never can._


	27. Strategies, Public and Private

“Why did she invite  _him_?” Ginny managed to inflict a world of scorn on one helpless word.  
  
“I don’t know.” Harry kept his voice calm as he glanced through the sheaf of parchments Hermione had sent him—the list of topics they would discuss at the meeting of the Blood Reparations Department. She could have waited, since they would see each other in only a few hours, but Hermione believed in encouraging her people to have good ideas even  _before_  they reached the meeting. “Draco has impressions of his own, given that he was part of the battle, I reckon. Hermione might just want one more pair of eyes so that she can learn as much as possible about our enemies.” He shifted a bit. Tutela was sitting on his left shoulder, her favorite perch, and though her talons didn’t hurt him, her weight tended to increase when Ginny was in the room.  
  
“Harry.”  
  
He glanced up and raised his eyebrows when he saw the pleading look on Ginny’s face, and the hand she had extended to him. He took it, and listened attentively while she fumbled her way through several declarations before settling on the one she wanted. It had become ridiculously easier to listen to Ginny ever since Tutela came. She would herd Harry out of the room with wingbeats about his head if she felt his anger build too much, and then make him chase her or play with his children or Floo Draco and trade jokes until he had laughed at least once. And she communicated so well—bobbing her head when he asked her questions, uttering warning hoots when James was about to pounce on Al, taking Harry’s chin in her foot and turning it towards her when she wanted him to pay attention. She truly was a Guardian Angel, and the best gift that anyone had ever given Harry.  
  
 _But for now, Ginny_ , Harry thought, and stopping thinking about his owl to fasten his attention on her. She had settled for a brave pose, he thought, her eyes glistening just slightly as she gazed at him.  
  
“Have you had any dreams of  _him_  in the past few nights?” she asked.  
  
Harry blinked. “No,” he said. “But you know that I’ve been taking the Dreamless Sleep potion since—“  
  
“You only took it on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday,” Ginny said, a muffled urgency in her voice. “It’s Saturday now. I’m asking you if you’d had any dreams since _then_ , and hidden them from me.”  
  
Startled, Harry paused, and then thought. No, actually, he hadn’t. His nights had been deep and calm, and if he had dreams, he remembered none of them on waking. He could remember  _all_  the dreams he had ever had of Draco, though, even the less sexual ones. If he didn’t recall them now, he wasn’t having them.  
  
“No,” he said slowly.  
  
Ginny’s hand tightened in his, but not to the point of pain, just the same kind of surreptitious little squeeze she used to give him when they were in front of reporters after Voldemort’s defeat and she was trying to keep him from snapping at the eager questions. “Then,” she whispered, “maybe they’re gone?”  
  
“Maybe,” said Harry, unwilling to forsake the idea that he still had a connection with Draco. And then he shook his head. He should be happy if the dreams were leaving him alone. Maybe, now that all the life-debts but one were fulfilled, they were close to breaking apart from the mirror magic. Maybe he could look forward to a life beside his wife, instead of Draco.  
  
His skin crawled. Harry took a slow, deep breath, and told himself not to be silly. He’d chosen Ginny originally. Why should he mourn if the bonds that had restricted his choices were gone, and now Draco was free to lose interest in him and find someone else?  
  
 _Except that it doesn’t work that way_ , he thought, even as Tutela tightened her talons again and gave a low hoot of distress.  _He’s in love with you, now. And you know that he can’t just give you up that easily._    
  
A discomforting thrill ran through him. Since he had learned that Draco loved him back, Harry was happier than he’d ever been, but at the same time, he knew he shouldn’t be—that he had no chance of getting his normal life back if he didn’t strive after it and wish for it. He wanted something he shouldn’t want, was made happy by what he knew was bad for him.  
  
And if Draco seemed so much more attractive than Ginny did now, why shouldn’t that fade? Perhaps Harry would start finding faults with him in a few years the way he had with Ginny. He didn’t  _know_. If he wanted to rest on certainty, he wouldn’t find it here.  
  
There were only two things he knew for certain, he thought as Tutela nipped his ear. He had his Guardian Angel with him. And the dreams had stopped.  
  
Well, a third thing. If he didn’t leave soon, he would be late for the strategy meeting. Hermione had told him to be there at ten-o’clock.  
  
He gave Ginny a swift kiss, then touched Tutela’s back. She already knew that meant she should fly to her perch on the corner of the house, and she did it, though with one more final nip, and her flaps were reluctant and heavy. Harry smiled at his wife, and turned towards the door. He was Apparating to the Ministry, but under guard, at Hermione’s insistence.  
  
“Harry?” Ginny asked. “Don’t you think this means there’s another chance for us?”  
  
Harry paused and looked back at her. He let his voice emerge slow and thoughtful, daringly showing his exact feelings for once. “I don’t know,” he said.  
  
The last thing he saw before the door shut was her face, shining with a hope that made him hurt inside.  
  
*  
  
Draco gave Millicent a tight smile and a little nod. “This looks to be accurate and invaluable information, Millicent. What will you want for it?”  
  
“You think that I’ll start squeezing you for payment so soon?” Millicent’s eyes had the lazy, content look of a cat who had just received several minutes of human attention along with a full bowl of cream.  
  
“You look like you want something,” Draco said. He mentally patted himself on the back for noticing. Not long ago, his instincts had been so dull that he would have assumed Millicent was helping him out of the goodness of her heart, and would have been caught off guard when she demanded her repayment.  
  
Millicent sighed and passed a dramatic hand across her face. “Oh, dear. I obviously haven’t changed enough from school. I  _did_  think that you wouldn’t recognize my bargaining face.” She leaned forwards, so that it looked as if her head would poke out of the Floo and into his drawing room. “I want Potter to attend the opening of the new Phoenix Wizarding Library on the fifth.”  
  
Draco blinked. “I didn’t know you were that interested in libraries, Millicent.”  
  
“You didn’t ask what books the library carried,” said Millicent, and then waited for him to figure it out.  
  
She must have been disappointed when Draco snapped his fingers and matched her smirk. “You finally found a safe place to store those books that you stole from your father’s study, didn’t you?” Millicent’s father had forbidden her to study Dark Arts, even though her much older brother had had the run of the house. Millicent, furious, had raided his study for books she was interested in, and had bragged about it several times at Hogwarts, but having books like that around was dangerous in these days of Aurors randomly raiding pure-blood houses.  
  
“Yes.” Millicent’s eyes half-lidded again. “There will be wings that no one ever quite approaches, unless they hold a proper pass, of course. I’m basing the permission wards on Hogwarts’s Restricted Section. It’s a fascinating magical construction. This way, only those people who  _need_  those particular Dark Arts books will be able to see them, much less remove them from the library—and Aurors who want to check them over for illegal spells don’t count as having the need.” She flipped one hand as though to modestly dismiss her whole achievement. “There are still a few suspicious eyes on the library, since I made several donations to it, and Blaise’s mother made more. Putting Potter’s seal of approval on the thing will stop some of the rumors.”  
  
“You’re brilliant,” Draco said, because compliments always went down well, and Millicent would be able to read his sincerity in his eyes and voice. Besides, there was no reason that he shouldn’t build up insurance for a future date.  
  
Millicent uttered a light laugh and cut the Floo connection. Draco raised an eyebrow, gathered the documents that she had given him, and looked quickly through them. He didn’t have much time for investigation, since Granger had told him that he had to meet her at the Ministry at nine-thirty.  
  
They were mostly deeds of possession for manor houses, some of them abandoned during the war, other damaged and sold by their disgusted owners, who had moved to more congenial surroundings. In each case, the same disguised handwriting appeared, though the aliases varied: Angelica Banks, Theodosia Angelsnight, Medea Timor. The remaining documents were statements of sale on land and on a shipment of “boulders” that were described with close accuracy in the report Millicent had snagged. Draco was willing to wager Malfoy Manor that those were actually dragon eggs, and not rocks.  
  
He stood and slid the documents into the pocket of his robes, then snatched up a handful of Floo powder. His skin was tingling at the mere thought of being close to Harry again; it had been several days since that had last happened. Harry’s enraptured letter thanking him for Tutela—he’d named his Guardian Angel “Guardian” in Latin—and telling Draco that he was taking the Dreamless Sleep potion to please his wife had been their last post. They’d used the Floo to conduct brief conversations instead, and since Harry seemed to need them to remain light, Draco had obliged.  
  
There was no reason that they should have gone a week without visiting each other, really, save that it had happened. And it had taken that long for Granger to put together a compendium of information on the Masked Lady sufficient for calling a full council of war.  
  
Draco spoke the Floo designation for Granger’s office and stepped through, anticipating that Harry’s eyes would be the first pair he could meet honestly, as had happened the night they fought the dragons at Hogwarts.  
  
Instead, he found himself facing Granger, who rose to her feet behind her desk with her wand trained on him, her eyes hard as amber.  
  
Draco paused only a moment, and then made it seem as if he had not paused, sweeping into the room to sit down on the chair in front of Granger’s desk. “You told me to come earlier than Harry, didn’t you?” he asked, because if Harry had been there already, Draco was sure he would have been waiting at the Floo. “So that you could talk to me. Well done.”  
  
The Granger he remembered from Hogwarts would have flushed and said something about how much she hated him. This Granger was a competent woman, as hard in her own way as the Masked Lady, and she didn’t let her fury slow her down any more than the sling around her left arm did. She jerked her head in a quick nod, and then sat down in her own chair.  
  
“I want you to say away from Harry,” she said.  
  
“Impossible,” Draco said lightly.  
  
“Less impossible for you than for him.” There was no tone in her voice at all; if it wasn’t for the bright, disgusted sheen in her eyes, Draco might have thought he was facing a soulless Ministry official who cared for nothing but her job.  _Come to think of it_ , he realized as he studied her face,  _I’m not sure that that isn’t what she’s become_. “I overheard your conversation in the corridor at Hogwarts. He’s in love with you. You have no such feelings. You can easily back away.”  
  
Draco raised his eyebrows. He was not inclined to say that he loved Harry right now, though if asked he would not deny it. “How much do you know about the bonds that life-debts create between wizards, Granger? If you’re ignorant because you’re Muggleborn, just tell me.”  
  
He hoped to use her resulting anger to push her off-balance, but she only narrowed her eyes and said, “I know that life-debts can be fulfilled, and the bonds broken. And I know that Ginny and Harry will both suffer if you continue to insist that he should be yours.”  
  
“It is willingness that will drive him to answer those debts, and no pushing of mine,” Draco said gently. He didn’t feel much compassion for her—meddler that she was, head of a Department that existed to push people of wildly varying cultures together whether they wanted to coexist or not—but he could see her position, as friend of Harry’s wife first and Harry a distant second, and they were on the same side in the war. He did not want to antagonize her  _unnecessarily._  
  
If it were necessary, of course, he would go into a private war with Granger for Harry, and the larger one could go hang.  
  
“You  _required_  that he do something he hated doing,” Granger hissed. “He might be willing to come to you, but he’s deluded if he thinks that you could ever care for him back.”  
  
“Did you listen,” Draco said, unable to believe that she had heard the conversation and could still think this way, “ _to_  the request I made of him? I ordered that he be happy, Granger. I had to  _order_  him to think about his own happiness. What does that say to you? That he’s just fine and healthy and happy without me, and that he’ll go on cheerfully doing whatever you need him to? It says to  _me_  that he’s worn out, and that he’s neglected his own happiness until he doesn’t recognize it as a need any more. With me, Harry will have someone who protects him as well as someone who is protected. I’ve made arrangements so that I won’t be constantly preying on his strength without even realizing it.” He paused, so that the words would come out just right, and added, “He could stand to have more than one friend who did that.”  
  
Armored against such accusations, perhaps because she’d made them to herself in the dead of the night, Granger didn’t even blink. “He’s happy doing work for the Blood Reparations Department and spending time with his family,” she said briskly. “And he’s not happy about helping us in this war, but he’s doing it. I  _won’t_  have you distracting him, Malfoy.”  
  
“Is that the way a friend would talk?” Draco asked quietly. “Is that something you would require of  _Mrs._  Potter?”  
  
“Ginny has different contributions to make,” said Granger. “She was never tested in battle, and she’s a competitive flyer, not one who could handle a broom around dragons.”  
  
“She’s probably had more practice in chasing a Snitch than I have,” said Draco. “And yet, there I was. And there Harry was, even though he probably hasn’t spent much time on a broom casting. You  _don’t_  listen to yourself, I think, and certainly not to me. So much relies on Harry that you don’t dare question your debt to him, just in case everything falls apart.”  
  
Granger drummed her fingers on the desk. “Am I to understand that you won’t leave Harry alone? I know you don’t respect honor much, Malfoy, or I would have appealed to you on this account before: Harry is a happily married man. He has a wife and children who need him and would be hurt by your interference. And using the life-debts to capture him is little better than slavery, since it’s not something he chose.”  
  
“I feel reassured that you care little for Harry’s choices,” said Draco dryly. He might as well be dry. He wasn’t getting through to her with politeness. “This is  _still_  his choice, and might turn either way. If he finds that he can’t abandon his wife, then I won’t challenge his decision. I only want to be sure that he is speaking the truth and doing what’s best for him, not just for other people.”  
  
“Harry  _thrives_  on doing what’s best for other people.”  
  
“The wizarding world never gave him a choice in that,” said Draco, and stood. “Now. I don’t think that the time Harry’s arriving can be very far away, since you would have thought you needed only twenty minutes or so to convince me.” The look of surprise on Granger’s face would have amused him if he were in a mood to feel anything but ringing rage and sadness. “You have your answer. Everything still depends on Harry. And unlike some people in this room, I trust him to know what’s best for himself, and that that decision will not hurt others more than can be helped.”  
  
“I don’t think he has any idea what he wants,” Granger snapped, “not when being with you would cost him everything.”  
  
“If he can give up that ‘everything’ and still walk away with me,” Draco murmured, “I don’t think it’s so indispensable to him after all.”  
  
Granger had risen to her feet, but the door opened then and Harry walked in.  
  
He halted when he saw Draco, and his green eyes were deep with emotions that might have moved Draco to tears if he were given to expressing himself like that. There was pleasure, and joy, and uncertainty, and a kind of terror, the vertigo that someone felt in looking over a cliff.  
  
What Draco  _didn’t_  see was the same soul-deep, tearing hurt that he’d witnessed at Hogwarts. Harry had moved beyond that, into territory where he might not know what happened next but at least could get away from the pain enough to think rationally.  
  
Since Granger knew everything anyway, Draco moved up to Harry and laid his hand on his cheek. He could feel Granger watching as Harry immediately let the weight of his head rest there, his eyes wide and trusting.  
  
Then Harry straightened and shot his friend a cool look Draco would never have believed him capable of.  
  
“I think everyone’s here now, Hermione,” he said lightly, “since you told the others to meet in the administration room down the corridor.”  
  
And he turned and stalked away, pausing long enough to brush a hand along Draco’s elbow in passing.  
  
When he could catch his breath, Draco murmured, “Stop playing games with him and thinking he’s too stupid to see,” just in case Granger was inclined to take his advice, and then trotted after Harry.  
  
*  
  
Draco was bored.  
  
He had absorbed Granger’s essential information in the first few minutes of the meeting: They still didn’t know who the Masked Lady was. There was now evidence—obtained from Charlie, the Dragon-Keeping Weasley—that numerous dragon sanctuaries had lost eggs, and that the Masked Lady had bought and raised them. Whatever methods she’d used to domesticate them for riding were still unknown, as well. The plans she’d used to attack Diagon Alley, Harry’s house, Malfoy Manor, and Hogwarts had taken her months to lay, and it was unlikely that she could do something else significant quickly.  
  
Granger’s people had also discovered why she’d wanted to attack Hogwarts, or thought they had, via a third warning from the same person who’d warned them about the attacks on Diagon Alley and the school. When everything was laid waste, the Masked Lady would have used the confusion to place the blame on two of the Muggleborn supremacist groups involved. Pure-blood families, enraged and in mourning over the deaths of their children, would have attacked the Muggleborns, and the war would have started that way. With Harry dead and the attacks in Diagon Alley blamed on pure-blood supremacists, there would have been no public figure of sufficient strength and popularity to calm the fury.  
  
Draco wondered idly if it stung Granger that she would never have that level of recognition and adoration that people gave Harry.   
  
But even though he’d understood that, not all the Ministry officials had, and Granger was still explaining, along with why they had every reason to fear another attack from the Masked Lady in the future.  
  
He was playing with Harry’s fingers beneath the table, noting that his own breathing was easier in Harry’s presence and that the touch of his skin was  _essential_  after a week of no dreams, when he realized the warning note had been passed down the table to him. He picked it up and looked at it, expecting to see nothing more than another disguised hand. After all, the traitor in the Masked Lady’s ranks wouldn’t have wanted to risk discovery himself.  
  
And then he went cold, and the blood rushing in his ears drowned his voice; it was only because he planned to speak the words that he knew what he said. “I know this handwriting.”  
  
Everyone turned expectantly towards him, and Minister Shacklebolt demanded, “You know who the Masked Lady is?”  
  
“No,” Draco said softly. Harry was leaning against him now, rubbing small, soothing circles on his back, out of sight. The merest contact of their shoulders would have helped Draco; more gave him the strength to look up, meet every pair of eyes—Granger’s last—and say, “The person warning us of the attacks is my wife Marian.”  
  
“How can  _that_  be?” Weasley asked, sounding baffled. He sat to Granger’s right as usual, and concealed his boredom with more skill than Draco. “I thought she set the Blood Hydra on you?”  
  
“I think,” Draco said, his gaze fastened to the note, his mind wheeling through memories of the past—of how much Marian had loved Scorpius and how little she would have liked to hurt him— “that she might have joined the Masked Lady’s followers and learned too late that the blood magic they had her perform could have hurt her own son. She loves Scorpius. She wouldn’t turn against him. But she could hardly back out once she was enmeshed, either. She might risk sending us these warnings.” He frowned and passed the note up the table to Granger, who was impatiently reaching for it. “At the very least, I can’t think of a reason why anyone else would want to _disguise_  her handwriting as Marian’s. She has to know that not many people would recognize it, and of the ones who did, still fewer would trust her.”  
  
“No one, I hope,” Harry said into his ear.  
  
Draco reached behind himself and squeezed Harry’s shoulder. He saw Weasley’s eyes narrow thoughtfully.  
  
“We’ll see,” said Granger, who did not sound convinced. “I’ll have to run some tests on it first.”  
  
“You’ve still made more of a contribution than anyone else here except Hermione has,” Harry murmured to him.  
  
The sound of his voice was— _proud_. Draco basked in it, feeling it lap around him like a warm bath.  
  
*  
  
“Ah, Mr. Potter.” There was a long pause following the words, and then Eaglethorpe softly cleared his throat. “Forgive me, but you don’t look well.”  
  
“No,” Harry murmured, sitting in the chair across from Eaglethorpe’s desk with his head in his hands. “I don’t think I am, and I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”  
  
A few days ago, in the Ministry meeting while he was sitting next to Draco, he thought nothing could have made him unhappy. The strain between him and Ginny was just something he would have to live with. He’d make sure that his being in love with Draco didn’t adversely affect his children. And he could do nothing to help the war for the moment, not until Hermione’s investigators uncovered more information about the Masked Lady. He’d finally found an accommodation between his duties and himself. He was more relaxed than he had been in years.  
  
And then, a few hours after the meeting, his vision had started to blaze. Shadows looked wrong. Patches of color like afterimages hovered in the corners of his eyes, but darted away when he tried to focus on them. His head ached, and his tongue tangled around the simplest words.   
  
Ginny had suggested he rest and eat simple foods, because he was probably sick. But nothing happened to alleviate the symptoms. Harry slept—still without dreams of Draco—and woke to find himself hardly able to see. Ginny’s concerned voice told him that his face was pale and his hands were shaking when he held them up in front of his eyes.  
  
Harry had managed to clear his vision by using a few simple spells, stubbornly and over and over again, but neither Hermione nor Ron had any idea how to stop the hallucinations completely. Molly had fussed over him, seeming glad of the distraction from her grief, but even she, with her vast experience in raising seven children, couldn’t say what was wrong with him. Harry hadn’t contacted Draco; he didn’t want to spread any infection to him, Narcissa, or Scorpius.  
  
Tutela had perched worriedly on the back of his bed and hooted softly over and over, but she wouldn’t drive him to play when he wasn’t feeling well. Ginny had asked whether he really needed to keep the appointment with Eaglethorpe, but Harry had insisted. With any luck, it would be the last one.  
  
“Should you be here?” Eaglethorpe asked bluntly.  
  
Harry forced himself to drop his hands and look the other man in the eye. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’m seeing color patches and messing up my sentences and having headaches, but that’s still better than the way I felt yesterday morning or Saturday night.”  
  
His eyes resigned, Eaglethorpe nodded. “So. Please tell me if you experienced attraction to any other man.”  
  
“No,” Harry said quietly. “No more than I commonly find other women on the street attractive.”  
  
The therapist gave him a melancholy smile. “Then, Mr. Potter, I’m afraid that I must tell you my diagnosis is love. It could be infatuation, of course, but I don’t think it is. These dreams have had ten years to work on your mind. You’re inclined to pursue Mr. Malfoy, and now that you’ve met him, you have opportunity to do so.” He shook his head. “This isn’t a mental illness, and still less a confusion of sexual orientation. Your orientation is exactly as flexible as it needs to be to accommodate loving  _this_  man, and no more.”  
  
Harry nodded. “What makes you think so?” A patch of pink was shimmering in the corner of his eye. He resolutely ignored it.  
  
“Because I have read your history and studied you as you sat in front of me,” Eaglethorpe said. “You’re extremely loyal, and your loyalties are not easily changed. Once you told me how Mr. Malfoy gained yours, I didn’t think it would waver. Of course, your loyalty to your wife was once as strong, but it is old and—forgive me—seems to receive little reinforcement from her side. It is only natural that this bond should shine strongly, after ten years of subtle reinforcement from the dreams and Mr. Malfoy’s accommodation of your desires.”  
  
“The dreams have stopped,” Harry muttered.  
  
“That—is worrisome,” Eaglethorpe said, and his voice sharpened. “Do you think that has something to do with your illness?”  
  
Harry snorted. “I don’t see how. I’ve accepted that I love Draco, myself. I’ve told my wife. I spent the last week happier than I have been in some time.”  
  
“Yes, none of that should have  _weakened_  you.” Eaglethorpe signed a piece of parchment, and then passed it across the desk to Harry. “I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do for the particular problem you came to me with. If you’d like to talk to me in the future, please do arrange it. If you’ll just sign here?”  
  
Harry smiled, though he knew it was weak, and stood up, reaching across the desk to sign.  
  
He never remembered the quill touching the parchment, or his body hitting the floor.


	28. The First Betrayal

Harry heard sounds from a distance. He could decide whether he rose to confront those sounds. He knew they were outside his head and not part of the feverish images stalking him—red wolves that melted into blue hippogriffs when he whirled to face them—and so he considered it.  
  
But when he tried, there was a barrier in place after all, a great sticky black pane that held him like tar while he struggled. He tried to shout, and the tar flowed into his mouth. He tried to lift his hand, and the weight of the liquid wrapped around it and held it down.  
  
He sank and was still again. The voices drifted near him and then retreated, and now he felt a sense of movement, as though he were being wheeled along broad corridors. He wondered for a moment if they had taken him to Hogwarts, to Madam Pomfrey.  
  
 _Why would I need to see Madam Pomfrey? What happened to me?_  
  
But the tar answered for him, and this time it drowned the vestiges of consciousness that Harry possessed. He knew someone was shouting, and that was the last thing he knew in the moments before he lost all awareness.  
  
*  
  
“What’s wrong with him?”  
  
Draco was so angry that he was shaking. He was impressed that he had managed to keep his voice to a mere shout when speaking to Granger, who stood by Harry’s bedside, her wand aimed at him. Her eyes were as level but not as calm as the stare she’d used on him when he confronted her in her office a few days ago.  
  
They should have  _told_  him. He should have been at Harry’s side the moment this illness, whatever it was, struck him. Instead, he’d had to find out from the  _Daily Prophet_ that Harry Potter had collapsed in his therapist’s office and been rushed to St. Mungo’s. The article, since it was written by Rita Skeeter, also hinted at rumors that Harry had been sick in the days immediately before his collapse.  
  
Draco hadn’t known whether to believe  _that_ , but now, seeing the sheer pallor of Harry’s face and the way the tendons on his hands stood out above the skin, he could.  
  
“You can read signs as well as I can, Malfoy,” Granger said, and if it hadn’t been for the tremble in her voice, Draco really thought that he would have tried to kill her where she stood. That tremble was the only sign that she was affected. “He’s on the third floor. The staff at St. Mungo’s believes he’s been poisoned.”  
  
“And do you?” Draco leaned against the wall, dividing his gaze between Granger and Harry—but only because he was forced to, in case Granger attacked him. He much rather would have looked his fill at Harry. He lay far too still. His breathing seemed normal, and when Draco cast a small, nonverbal spell that would accentuate sound, he could hear a steady heartbeat. But most of his spirit and life seemed to have left him.  
  
“I don’t know what to think,” Granger said shortly, and stepped back so that she could look down at Harry, her hand smoothing over his hair. Draco watched the sweat-soaked strands drop back from the scar and controlled the impulse to snap at her. She had no right to touch Harry, but she thought she had a right, and struggling with her would probably get Draco thrown out of the hospital, since he had no official connection to Harry. “We’ve tested all his food. There’s no trace of a poison. And if there  _had_ been poison in the food, it would have affected the children and Ginny as well.”  
  
“Tell me his symptoms.” Draco closed his eyes and recalled his old expertise in potions. He had not always been able to match symptoms to kind of potion, but if he could do it now, he would feel that he was contributing to Harry’s health.  
  
“Hallucinations for the past two days,” Granger said quietly. There came the faint  _wish-swish_  sound of her hand cutting through the dark hair. “Color patches, he said. He had trouble moving or seeing. He was losing control of his emotions; Ginny said that he snapped at her more often in the past two days than he has in years. He was generally weak. We thought that he was sick, and it had lessened enough on Monday so that he could go to the therapist’s office. That’s another thing that doesn’t make sense. If someone concocted a poison for him, why would they make one that showed its effects before it was ready to kill him? That just gives us a greater chance to figure it out and stop it in time.”  
  
Draco hissed beneath his breath and glared at Granger. “ _You_  must know what’s wrong,” he said.  
  
Granger had gone very still, and then her head lifted and she watched him the way she might watch a Fwooper. Her hand tightened on her wand. “If this is something that you gave him and he trusted you enough to take, Malfoy—“  
  
“It’s common Potions knowledge, Granger,” Draco interrupted harshly. He was looking at Harry, whose breathing was still steady but had become shallower. He knew that what he said next might cause problems, but he would rather have that than the Healers being deprived of a chance to save Harry in time. “Those are the symptoms of an overdose of the Dreamless Sleep Potion. They’re from dream deprivation.”  
  
“That’s impossible,” Granger said. “I brewed it for him, but he  _knows_  not to take it longer than three nights in a row. And I know that he wouldn’t, no matter how much he wishes for peace with Ginny. He wouldn’t want to die and leave his children and his wife alone, either.” She glared at Draco to let him know that he wasn’t included in the number of people Harry would be unhappy to leave.  
  
“Then someone else fed it to him,” Draco said, much more calmly than he felt. “I have reason to know that he hasn’t had any dreams of me in more than a week.”  
  
“You’re seriously suggesting—“ Granger closed her eyes and turned to face the bed again.   
  
“Why haven’t the Healers checked for Dreamless Sleep poisoning yet?” Draco asked, deciding he didn’t care whether she believed him or not. If she was too caught up in defending the wife to see to the welfare of the husband, he would damn well do it himself. “There should be someone on this floor who has the necessary experience and cleverness to recognize the symptoms.”  
  
“I said they shouldn’t,” Granger said, her voice strangled. “I told them he was taking it because he has trouble sleeping at night—“  
  
 _He didn’t seem to have trouble sleeping that evening he stayed at the Manor, only trouble looking me in the face when he woke_ , Draco thought, but held his tongue.  
  
“But also that he would never overdose on it. They accepted that, and took samples of his blood and hair so that they could look for other causes.” Granger’s voice had sunk so low on the last words that Draco had to strain to hear her.  
  
“Well, congratulations,” Draco said, amused in the midst of his bitterness. “You may just have killed your best friend by delaying his diagnosis.” He turned about to find a Healer, and surprised Weasley in the doorway. He cradled two cups of steaming tea in his hand, and his gaze darted from Draco to the bed to his wife and back.  
  
“Is that true, Hermione?” he asked quietly. “Do you really think that Ginny put the Dreamless Sleep in Harry’s food?”  
  
“She wouldn’t,” Granger whispered.  
  
Draco snorted and slipped past Weasley. He could feel the blue gaze tracking him down the corridor, but he didn’t care. He soon cornered a tall, thin Healer who had been enjoying his own cup of tea, but stood up with a weary sigh and nod when he saw Draco.  
  
“I’d been resting for fifteen minutes,” he muttered. “Knew it was too good to be true.”  
  
Draco ignored the words because he didn’t see how they were relevant. “Harry Potter in Room 1224 needs your help,” he said. “It’s Dreamless Sleep overdose, after all, and I suspect that he’s taken it for eight days, with the last dose occurring last night.”  
  
The Healer frowned and shifted. Now Draco could see that he bore a name plaque saying “Rex Wagner” clipped to the front of his robes, along with the crossed bone and wand that was the emblem of the hospital. “You seem to know facts that not even his best friends or wife could tell us,” he said. “And yet, you don’t look related to him.”  
  
“I’m not,” said Draco. “But he owes me a life-debt, and I have reason to see that he doesn’t die before he fulfills it.”  
  
Wagner laughed a bit. “Well, that’s a unique reason to want to take care of someone,” he muttered, and then pushed past Draco. The way he moved and the way his dark brown hair curled around his ears were both attractive, but Draco found that he could hardly think about such things. Harry might be dying. One went mad without dreams, and continued use of the potion past the fourth or fifth day could affect the heart.  
  
Draco’s spell had seemed to show him that Harry’s heart was beating strongly and steadily, but, on the other hand, he didn’t know what it sounded like ordinarily.  
  
He followed Wagner in silence, and watched as he opened the door of Harry’s room and stepped inside with enviable confidence. Draco lifted his head and tried to imitate that confidence as he marched in, though he had to lean against the door while Wagner was able to approach the bed.   
  
He drew his wand and spent a moment looking at Harry’s scar and at his chest, before he parted the robes and laid the wand over Harry’s heart. He chanted several words in a Latin incantation—Draco could only catch “potion” and “purge”—paused, and then began another incantation, which continued for several minutes. Then he stepped away from the bed, motioning Granger to follow him and Draco and Weasley to keep away with the same hand.  
  
Harry trembled, and then his mouth and his hands opened. Thick purple-green liquid, which looked like partially digested Dreamless Sleep Potion, began to gush from between his lips, from the lines of his palms, from his nostrils and beneath his eyelids. Draco took a step forwards, momentarily concerned that he might drown, but the flow stopped quickly. Then Healer Wagner waved his wand, Vanished the mess, and leaned close enough to Harry that he could probably hear his heartbeat like Draco had. Draco recast his spell, and listened to a beat that already sounded stronger and steadier, though that was probably his imagination.  
  
“He’ll be well,” Wagner said, and pulled back from the bed with a pleased expression. “I’ve cast a spell to reverse any damage that the potion might have dealt to his heart. Of course, he’ll need to keep from taking the potion again for at least two years, and preferably for the rest of his life. And he needs to go back to sleep as soon as possible after he awakens, and then have at least ten hours of normal sleep, complete with dreams. Don’t let him move too far or too fast and hurt himself, either. He could.” He nodded to them all, as though inviting them to share in his triumph, and then turned and left the room with a calm, efficient stride. Probably going back to his tea, Draco thought in amusement. He acted as though saving a man’s life was nothing.  
  
It was not.   
  
And Draco knew the magic binding him and Harry didn’t think it was nothing, either, because a moment later a burst of gold-white light blinded him. He lifted a hand in front of his eyes, though it did no good, and then lowered it and squinted as the glow dimmed and centered on Harry. It settled into his skin like the setting sun, and vanished. Draco put a hand on his chest, and felt the skin over his heart shuddering. He guessed that the magic had created a scar there to symbolize the fact that his saving of Harry’s life had protected his heart.  
  
He looked up at Granger and Weasley. Weasley’s stare had sharpened, and his hands rested, spread open, on his knees, as though he were trying to keep from leaning forwards and touching Draco. Draco grimaced at the thought, and turned away.  _No Weasley touches me. That honor is reserved for Harry._  
  
Granger’s head was bowed, and Draco could no longer see her face. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. He came towards the bed and took Harry’s wrist, running his thumb over the pulse.   
  
“You realize,” he said, not looking at either one of the room’s inhabitants, “that he can’t stay with his wife anymore. He can’t stay with someone who tried to kill him, and very nearly succeeded.”  
  
“I don’t think she was trying to kill him,” Weasley said. His voice was so thoughtful, and looking at Harry’s tightly shut eyes, while wishing they would open to reveal a shine of green, was so compelling, that Draco didn’t snap at him. “I think she was genuinely trying to make sure that Harry didn’t have those dreams of you anymore. And she was never a good Potions student. She probably wouldn’t know much about the side-effects of Dreamless Sleep. He was still resting, and better than ever without the dreams to make him twitch and roll about, so why not give him as much as he could handle?”  
  
Draco snorted bitterly. “She has to have known better than that. Who  _doesn’t_  know about the side-effects of Dreamless Sleep?”  
  
“I didn’t,” Weasley said. “I think most of the Healers who saw Harry put aside the suspicion after Hermione told them that there was no way he could overdose. That only proves that not even knowledgeable eyes are enough, if there isn’t a brain behind them guiding them in the right direction.” Footsteps sounded, and then Weasley’s hand clasped Draco’s shoulder and shook it slightly. “He probably would have died because we simply couldn’t believe that something like this would happen. Thanks, Malfoy. We owe you one.”  
  
“I’ll be more satisfied if Granger apologizes,” Draco drawled, though he was thoroughly astonished that Weasley had done so, and had to keep his head bowed so that they wouldn’t see that.  
  
“I—“ Granger whispered, and then choked. Draco looked up at her to find her face pale, dark circles under her brown eyes standing out. He wasn’t inclined to feel much sympathy for her. He was sure that Harry had lost just as much sleep, and to many of the same causes, even if he’d slept too heavily this past week to fret like Granger did.  
  
“I can’t believe that she would do something like that.” Granger shook her head and smoothed her palm over Harry’s forehead once more. “No, she’s not a very good Potions student, but she has to have known there would be trouble, or Harry would have taken the Dreamless Sleep every night by himself.”  
  
“I’ll leave it to you to wring a confession out of her,” Draco said, and Summoned the chair he’d seen standing on the opposite side of the room. “If I go near her in this mood, I’ll probably kill her.” He sat down next to Harry’s bed and took his hand. “Why isn’t she here?” he added.  
  
“Someone had to stay with the children,” Weasley murmured. “Ginny said she would, since Mum was with ours.”  
  
 _Afraid of being found out, probably_. Draco sneered.  _She wants to put distance between herself and her crime for just a little longer. As if that somehow makes her any less guilty in what almost happened._  
  
His fingers trembled. Luckily, they were hidden inside Harry’s, so that no one else could notice.   
  
 _I nearly lost him._  
  
But he hadn’t. Draco forced himself to listen to the steady breathing and heartbeat, just so he would believe that.  
  
*  
  
Harry came so slowly back to wakefulness that for long moments he wasn’t sure he was awake. Then he opened his eyes and grimaced as he recognized the flat blue ceiling of St. Mungo’s. God knew that he’d spent enough time here, especially during his first few years of work for the Blood Reparations Department when the thought of reconciliation made people violent, that he should know it.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
 _Draco. I didn’t expect him to be here_. Harry rolled his head slowly in that direction. A hand intercepted him, palming his cheek and lifting his face, and then a cup of water was held to his lips. Harry swallowed eagerly. His throat felt thick and syrupy, as though he’d recently done a lot of vomiting or swallowed foul-tasting Healing potions.  
  
“What are you doing here?” he whispered, when he had control of his voice and had managed to open his eyes completely. “I must still be sick. I don’t want to infect you. I don’t want Scorpius to be infected, either, or your mother.”  
  
“That was your excuse for not contacting me earlier, wasn’t it?” Draco’s voice was flat, promising trouble to come, but his hand on Harry’s hair and scar was gentle. “It’s a stupid excuse, you prat. How would you have felt if you found out I was sick and that I had decided to endure it in noble suffering instead of contacting you?”  
  
“You’re not someone to endure anything important in noble suffering.” Harry nuzzled against his hand, unable to believe how content he felt. He was still tired, and his limbs were sore, but Draco was with him. If his children had been in the same room, he would have been deliriously happy, and reluctant to leave. “Did they figure out what was wrong with me?”  
  
Draco’s face tightened around the corners, turning it into a parchment mask. Harry struggled, and finally managed to free one hand from where it was trapped beneath the covers, so that he could touch Draco’s fingers.  
  
“It has to do with Ginny, doesn’t it?” he asked.  
  
Draco stared at him. “How—“  
  
“You look as though you were caught between telling me something painful and feeling glee,” Harry explained, even as he tried to calm his breathing and steady his thoughts, so that he could bear any revelation Draco would give him. “You would only do that if Ginny was involved, and if your delight that she’d been caught was tempered by the fact that you know it will hurt me.”  
  
“Harry, it can wait.” Draco tried to push him back into the pillows. “The Healers said that you shouldn’t move about, and maybe my glee will lessen when I have time to think about it—“  
  
“It can’t wait.” Harry finally located his glasses on the table beside the bed and slung them over his face. “Tell me. Ron and Hermione would think of a way to break it to me gently, and they’d probably leave something important out,” he added, when Draco hesitated. “Tell me as bluntly as you can.”  
  
Draco spent a moment more licking his lips and looking as if he would have liked to object. Then he took Harry’s hands and said, “Ginny was slipping you Dreamless Sleep Potion in your food. That’s why you didn’t have any dreams about me for a week—why I didn’t have any dreams about you, for that matter—and why you got sick over the past few days. The brain can’t stand to be deprived of dreams for long. It was trying to send you to sleep without the potion so that it could dream.”  
  
Harry shut his eyes. “I suppose that Ron and Hermione have gone to get a confession from her?” he asked flatly.  
  
“Yes.” Draco hesitated a moment more, then added, “The Healers asked if you could have overdosed on the potion. Granger told them that you’d never do that on purpose, so they were looking for something else. I suggested that they check for an overdose instead, and the life-debt magic decided that I’d saved your life again and added another scar to our collection.”  
  
Harry made himself open his eyes and smile, so that Draco wouldn’t think his anger at Ginny was part of his reaction to  _that_  news. “Thank you,” he said. “If you believe that I’ll object to another connection set in place between us, you don’t know me very well.”  
  
“What are you going to do?” Draco asked, while Harry forced himself upright. He had to lean back on the pillows and rest when he reached a sitting posture, but he didn’t mind. His anger was strong and bright and clear-burning. There was no danger that it would lapse and let him alone any time soon.  
  
“It’s done,” Harry said briefly. “Staying with Ginny, that is. She can’t be trusted to think of reasonable consequences, and she can’t be trusted not to hurt the  _children_. Can you imagine what she might have put in their food when they fussed too much or when she just didn’t feel like taking care of them?”  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes in what Harry knew was confusion, because he tilted his head slightly at the same time, whereas he would just have stared if he were angry. “I don’t think she would do that, really.”  
  
“I can’t take the chance,” said Harry, and then made the request that he thought would be the most difficult part of the whole day. “Can James, Al, Lily, and I stay in the Manor until I find a house or flat of our own?”  
  
Draco’s jaw dropped. “You’re leaving her,” he said, and the wonder in his voice was too strong to permit other feelings to intrude. “You’re  _really_  leaving her.”  
  
“Yes.” Harry paused to swallow. The sense of betrayal would overwhelm him otherwise. The anger beat its wings and screamed, and then burned through several of the barriers that had been holding him back. He felt the burden of maintaining Ginny’s happiness fall from him like shed scales.  
  
It felt—more wonderful than he liked to admit, actually.  
  
“This is it,” Harry went on. “She could have deprived her children of a father, and you of a partner, and Ron and Hermione of their friend—“ He abruptly wriggled. The long scar down the left side of his body was nipping at him with bright, mint-like tingles.   
  
“And she could have hurt me badly,” he added, though in truth that was the least important thing to him; he’d come close to death so many times he didn’t think the mere cost of his own life would be so bad, if only it didn’t hurt other people. The scar, satisfied that he’d kept his promise to think about his own happiness, subsided again.  
  
“She  _did_  hurt you badly,” Draco said. There was a savagery in his voice that Harry would not have wanted to face alone. “The Healers said that your heart may have been permanently weakened. They won’t know until they run some tests—“  
  
“They can do it later,” said Harry, and pulled back the blankets. He was naked beneath them save for regulation hospital pyjamas. He forced himself to ignore that, as well as the avid stare Draco probably wasn’t even conscious of. “I have to go to the house, collect the children, and tell Ginny why I’m leaving her. Come with me?”  
  
“You should really be in bed,” Draco said, hovering.  
  
“I have to do this.” Harry stared at him. “I can’t leave the children alone with her for much longer.”  
  
“You know that the marriage vows will still be in place,” Draco whispered. “You can’t ever have sex with another man. Or woman,” he added, though the dismissal in his voice made it plain that he thought Harry wasn’t seriously considering that.  
  
“I don’t care,” Harry said. “It’s done and over with.”  
  
Finally, with a small nod, Draco consented, and fetched Harry his wand. Harry closed his eyes and recited a spell that would draw strength from his magical core to send to his limbs. It wasn’t always a good idea, but right now, he wanted to do this too much. The need to secure the safety of his children burned in him even more fiercely than the anger.  
  
There would be consequences, of course. God alone knew what this would do to his relationship with Ron and Hermione, and the children would miss their mother.  
  
But it was relief that made Harry’s hands tremble when he held out his arms for the robes Draco had brought him.


	29. Unforgivable Things

Draco tried to control the compulsion to fuss as they left the hospital—walking quickly so that anyone who might recognize Harry wouldn’t remember that he was supposed to be recovering and force him back into bed—and prepared to Apparate to Harry’s house. He didn’t know what to make of the look on Harry’s face. It had settled from open fury into something stronger and darker, like the expression of a Gorgon when she saw her own face in a mirror.  
  
When they arrived just outside Harry’s house, Harry stood still for a moment, looking at it, and then pulled out his wand. Draco tensed, but Harry turned and handed it to him. Draco held the holly wand in his hand and just blinked at it for a moment, wondering what he should do.  
  
“I don’t want to curse Ginny when we start yelling at each other,” Harry said quietly. “For the same reason, I’ll ask you to get the children out of the way. Ask Ron and Hermione to help you if they’re here. They shouldn’t have to see what will happen.”  
  
Draco couldn’t put off the compulsion to fuss any longer. “Harry, are you  _sure_  that you should be doing this? You’re still tired, and the Healers  _did_  say that you should go to sleep as soon as possible after you woke up. And is taking the children away from your wife—“  
  
“I have to have them at a distance from her, at least,” said Harry, and his voice sounded odd, rippling in and out as though he were speaking underwater. “I think she’ll use them as pawns against me otherwise, and they don’t deserve that.”  
  
“And you won’t use them as pawns against  _her_?” Draco asked. Maybe someone else wouldn’t have had the courage, with Harry in the strange mood he was in now. He had never suffered from the same kind of deficiencies that others did, however—he only suffered from uncommon ones—and so he trusted Harry not to hurt him.  
  
“I won’t,” said Harry. “Because this is what ends it for me, Draco.”  
  
Draco swallowed. He didn’t like the sound of that. “Oh?” he managed, since his throat had closed up tight.  
  
“Yes.” Harry shook his head a little. “I can’t—I can’t be responsible for her happiness anymore. I won’t hold her back from seeing the children, though I’ll take precautions to make sure that she can’t hurt or kidnap them. And when they’re old enough to make their own decisions, they can live with her if they want to. I’ll do my very best not to damage their relationship with her.  
  
“But for me? This is the end. I will have no more ties to her after this.”  
  
Draco thought the news should have thrilled him. Instead, he felt like weeping, and he didn’t even understand  _why_. He averted his eyes, and stood still for a moment. Harry pressed his shoulder once, then vanished into the house.  
  
Then he heard the sounds of children playing from the garden, and decided that he should gather them up. It helped that James and Al would recognize him, at least. He tracked around the house towards the sounds.  
  
He relaxed when he saw Weasley sitting on a bench, watching the children, without his wife. He glanced up when Draco came around the corner, his wand held not at all casually in his hand, and then inclined his head.  
  
“Malfoy,” he said. “Harry’s in there?”  
  
“Yes,” said Draco, and turned so that Weasley could see the two wands he held. “And he gave me his wand before he went in.”  
  
Weasley closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against the bench. Draco let him have a moment, since he could hardly imagine that Weasley would be cooperative when he suggested moving the children to Malfoy Manor.  
  
*  
  
Harry shut the door of the house softly behind him. He wondered if Ginny would think it was Ron coming back, or her mother, or him. Would she bustle out to confront him, trying to pretend that nothing was wrong, or would she hide?  
  
 _But something is wrong_ , Harry thought, baring his teeth.  _Something is very fucking wrong, oh yes, indeed._  
  
His fury was building again. Perhaps Draco would have said, were he there, that Harry still had no conclusive proof that Ginny had been behind the overdosing, but Harry knew. He remembered the way that Ginny had offered to make him tea the night of George’s death, and how suddenly he had felt sleepy after starting to drink it. And it had been incredibly hard for him to wake from slumber in order to join the defense of Hogwarts from the dragons.  
  
 _How could she have been so selfish, so—_  
  
Harry shook his head. He would have the chance to ask that of Ginny in a few moments.  
  
He walked down the entrance hall and turned right. A few glances were sufficient to convince him that Ginny wasn’t in the library, the kitchen, or any of the children’s rooms. That left the drawing room, the loo, or—  
  
Harry bared his teeth again, and turned right again, into their bedroom.  
  
Ginny stood there with her arms held stiffly at her sides, and her head bowed. Hermione hovered a few inches from her, whispering words that Harry couldn’t make out, her wand weaving back and forth as if she thought she would convince Ginny by emphasizing her points with it.  
  
Hermione saw Harry first. Her eyes widened, and she stepped back and away. Harry wondered for a moment if he looked like he had the day he killed Voldemort. Hermione had once told him that was the only time she had ever been frightened of him.  
  
Ginny looked up next, and her eyes met Harry’s. She froze for a moment, and then lifted her chin and shook her hair back.  
  
Maybe he should have admired her for facing the consequences of her actions with courage. However, it was rather too little, too late. Harry prowled forwards, feeling for a moment as he had when facing the Masked Lady.  
  
This hatred was worse, deeper, more personal. The Masked Lady had committed no betrayal of him; she was struggling against Harry because he had political power she would have been a fool to ignore. This was  _Ginny_. His wife, his love, a woman he probably still loved if he was being honest with himself, the mother of his children, the partner he should have been able to lean on no matter what.  
  
And now—  
  
Now, Harry was going to do his very best to light the remnants of his love on fire. He couldn’t stand it anymore, to be connected to her the way he was. The links of the past would remain, but they were the past and that was the way it should be. This was  _now_.  
  
And  _now_  was Ginny saying, “Harry. I didn’t—there’s something you should know—“  
  
“There are a lot of things I should know, I think,” said Harry, and his voice swelled in power like the incoming tide. He felt the blaze of defensive magic pick up around him, but he was channeling his rage through his voice, and he didn’t think it would react adversely to Ginny. That was the reason he hadn’t been afraid to give his wand to Draco: his wandless magic was primarily defensive, thus unlikely to attack, but at the same time strong enough to protect him if his “loving wife” fired a curse. “For one thing, did you poison me with the Dreamless Sleep, by giving it to me long past the recommended dosage?”  
  
Ginny bristled, her skin flushing with lion-like heat. Given the flash in her eyes, Harry couldn’t be sure that it was all embarrassment, either, the way he would have liked it to be. “I did,” she said. “But I didn’t mean to poison you. I just thought that it would make you stop dreaming of  _him_  so much, that it would bring you back by reminding you of what we could have, that it would help you rest better—“  
  
Harry’s raw, hoarse laughter cut her off. She stared at him as if she didn’t know how to deal with that. Harry was sure she didn’t.  
  
Not only were the side-effects of the potion, whatever of them still remained, and his lack of dreams coming down on him now, but all the years—and, recently, the torturous weeks and days—he had worked hard for Ginny’s happiness. He’d worked, and he’d hoped he could have a friendship with Draco without offending her, and he’d felt so  _guilty_  for the dreams, and he’d felt so guilty for the only things that made him happy, because he knew those things cost Ginny. So much work and time and emotion poured into a relationship that was just going to die anyway.  
  
“You knew better than that,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I have taken the Dreamless Sleep every night in order to spare you, if it was harmless? I  _would_  have. I put your happiness ahead of my own so much that Draco had to trick me into remembering my own. That’s the kind of fool I was—“  
  
“ _Really_ , Harry Potter?” Ginny leaned forwards, her fingers hooked into claws. “Not from what  _I_  can see. What  _I_  can see is that you’ve been selfish all your life, and adept at concealing that selfishness under selflessness. You wouldn’t have tried to have sex with someone other than me if—“  
  
“I didn’t try to have sex with him—“  
  
“You  _kissed_  him! Hermione  _told_  me! She  _saw_!”  
  
Harry didn’t bother glancing at Hermione. Her guilt and her happiness weren’t concerns of his at the moment.   
  
Ripping himself apart from Ginny, burning all his bridges so conclusively that she would never want to get back together with him, was.  
  
“So I kissed him,” he said. “Strange that even  _before_  that happened, you poured Dreamless Sleep in my tea—“  
  
“I saw that you were becoming closer to him!” Ginny spat. “You  _bastard_ , if you cared about me at all, if you cared about the children, you would have gone to a Mind-Healer the way I urged you to and let her suppress the dreams—“  
  
“I tried, there was nothing she could do without driving me insane—“  
  
“That would have been—“  
  
“Who took their problems outside this marriage first?” Harry snarled, his magic flaring around him enough to stir the curtains. “Hermione tells me that you were telling her all about our marriage problems for  _years_ —“  
  
“Because you wouldn’t listen!”Ginny’s throat sounded raw with her scream. “I tried to talk to you, and you pushed me aside, or dismissed me, or told me that I had nothing to worry about, that you only loved  _me_! What a load of rubbish  _that_  turned out to be.”  
  
“I didn’t know that I would fall in love with Draco—“  
  
“But even if you  _didn’t_ ,” Ginny spat at him, “once you  _did_ , then you damn well should have stayed with  _me_  and given up going to see him. There were plenty of other things that you could have done, Harry. It’s not like this was another fucking  _prophecy_. You could have fulfilled the life-debts and dissipated the magic that way. You could have spent more time at home with your family instead of staying over with him all the time—“  
  
“I  _had_  to do that—“  
  
“You fucking  _did not_! At least  _admit_  that you chose this instead of hiding behind your excuse of needing to do it—“  
  
“All  _right_!” Harry shouted. His nerves had been worn down faster than he would have believed possible. If Ginny wanted to hear what she thought was the truth, then she would hear it. “I treasured every moment I spent with Draco, and dreaded coming home to you! I can’t remember when the last time was that I felt passion for you, instead of feeling that I had to protect you like you were a helpless child! With Draco, I can have someone who’s my equal, someone who doesn’t need me to look out for his happiness all the time because he’s perfectly  _fucking_  capable of taking responsibility for it  _on his fucking own_! With you, I’m always dreading when I’ll say the least little thing wrong and ruin your whole damn day, because God knows, you’re not resilient enough to push the little things away and find some happiness in the midst of it!”  
  
“What did I endure?” Ginny’s voice was low and quiet. “Having three children in a row even when I didn’t  _want_  that third pregnancy, and then staying home with the children just so that you could work overtime with the Blood Reparations Department. Tell me that I’ve let little things ruin my happiness when you’ve been  _pregnant_ , Harry, and miserably sick every single morning for  _weeks_ —“  
  
“If you didn’t want Lily, you should have told me! I would have agreed to do something about it,” Harry said, but he choked, and Ginny leaped onto that sound like a Niffler onto gold.  
  
“Oh, yes, because  _that_  wouldn’t have been the end of our marriage right there,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “You  _giggled_  the day I told you, Harry. All you’ve ever really wanted are children. If there was a way to have them without having a wife, then you would have been perfectly happy to do so—“  
  
“Well, I wish there had been a way without having  _you_  as a wife, you’re right about that,” Harry said, as coolly as he could, but now his mind was full of the image of Ginny, pregnant with Lily and not nearly as happy as he’d always assumed she was.  
  
“You never asked,” Ginny went on, stalking forwards. Harry refused to back up, but he did avert his eyes, and he saw Hermione with her head bowed and tears streaming down her face. Ginny’s voice snatched his attention back again. “You just  _assumed_  that I was happy to have all the children in the world, and in a few years you’d be suggesting that we have another. But, of course, any objection on my part would have got me looked at as if I were inhuman. And what do you think Mum would have said? She’s always wanted dozens of grandchildren. She’s not satisfied with the six she has! Tell me that I could have said something about it without immediately being ostracized by my own family, Harry. Tell me that and  _mean it_.”  
  
Harry was breathing harshly. He wondered what in the world Lily and Ginny’s relationship would be like in the future, with Ginny continually looking at the girl and remembering that she hadn’t wanted her. Suddenly the weariness that he had seen on Ginny’s face when he came home from Blood Reparations work in the last few months took on another meaning.  
  
How could he not have known his own wife like this?  
  
And it was made worse because he really  _would_  have looked at Ginny like that if she had suggested not having Lily once she was pregnant, and he knew it.  
  
He looked up and straight at his wife. He tried to imagine getting into bed with her now, or trusting her again, and revulsion curled up his spine at the idea. His trust had been broken into pieces by this revelation, and it hurt the more because Ginny was  _right_. If he had been as sensitive to and in tune with her as he’d always believed, then he would have noticed her discomfort when she became pregnant for the third time in four years.  
  
“There are always other choices—“ he began.  
  
Ginny shook her head impatiently. “I won’t be a bad mother, whatever other kind of monster you make me into,” she said, and her voice swelled with passion. “I love my children. I want what’s best for them. And that includes having their father around.”  
  
Harry lifted his head slowly. The rage had withdrawn, and guilt had nearly taken its place, but now the anger was washing back in. “So,” he said quietly, “you really  _didn’t_ care what the Dreamless Sleep potion might be doing to me. As long as it made me into a better husband and a father for your children, then—“  
  
“It’s inevitable anyway,” Ginny snapped. Her eyes and her cheeks were bright. Harry knew the feeling. He’d felt it in hospital, the sudden shock of realizing that he was saying something he’d wanted to say for a long time. “We’re bound by these marriage vows. We can’t change them. We can’t depart from them. This really changes _nothing_ , Harry. I’m glad you’ve survived. Maybe you can be a little more considerate of my needs from now on.”  
  
Harry shook his head slowly, eyes locked on her. The fury was rising, sloshing around him.  
  
“You could have said something,” he said.  
  
“I told you why I didn’t say anything about my feelings towards that third baby—“  
  
“About the dreams,” Harry said, and his voice broke off at the end, into a snarl. Ginny narrowed her eyes at him, as if trying to determine what  _he_  could have to be angry about. “About your fear of their effect on our sex life. You told Hermione. Why couldn’t you tell  _me_?”  
  
“Because you would have reassured me, and done  _nothing_  about it,” said Ginny. “You were aroused by them. You  _wanted_  them, Harry—“  
  
“I never did!” It was Harry’s turn to scream. “You think I wanted to lie awake next to my wife, aroused by another man, aroused by my old school rival? Of course not! I—“  
  
“You could have  _done something_  about them, if you really didn’t want them!” The air around Ginny was stirring with her magic now, too, lifting and letting the ends of her red hair fall as if she were some kind of banshee.  
  
“I  _tried_!” Harry roared. “I went to Healers, I researched spells, I tried any combination of potions a few years ago, remember? Nothing  _worked_. What am I supposed to have done, taken a Time-Turner back and not saved Draco’s life so that I wouldn’t owe him anything?”  
  
“Don’t give me that,” Ginny said. Her voice had lowered and grown more deadly once again, while Harry was fighting the temptation to keep from just leaping ahead and hurting her. “You’re Harry Potter. You defeated the Dark Lord. You always find a way around obstacles that should stop you. Hell, you made me want Lily after she was born, just because you were so enthusiastic around her. You make a business out of changing minds and hearts so that Muggleborns can return to the pure-blood parts of the wizarding world. If you really wanted to overcome those dreams, you  _could_  have. That you didn’t tells me you wanted them, for whatever reason.”  
  
“I am not a bloody fucking hero for all seasons, Ginny,” said Harry, and his voice was soft, now, as he came to the crux of the problem. “I can’t solve everything. I can’t do everything. I certainly can’t do anything about problems that I thought we’d mutually decided to live with, when all the solutions I  _could_  try didn’t work.”  
  
“There’s always some way,” said Ginny. Her eyes and her face were overly bright, as with fever. “And you were the one who just came home one day and shrugged and told me that you couldn’t do anything about the dreams. If you’ll remember, which you probably  _don’t_  because your own needs have always occupied you more, I had to turn away to hide my tears. I was sworn to living with a man who wanted someone else. At least I never did that to you, Harry. I never fell in love with anyone else. When I did feel a pull of attraction, I stopped spending time with that person.  _You_  just went right ahead and fell blithely in love again. Of course, you’ll probably forget about  _him_ , too, in a month’s time, when the challenge of pursuing him isn’t enough for you anymore, and find someone else. Does he know that? I bet he doesn’t. He probably doesn’t realize that someone who’s fickle to one partner can be just as fickle to another one.”  
  
Harry shook his head slowly. “I put off considering my happiness for years, Ginny, because I thought that was what you wanted. I didn’t complain, I didn’t tell you what I was thinking, because when I tried it seemed to hurt you so much. I went to therapy because you wanted me to. I—“  
  
“Not  _enough_ , Harry,” Ginny said, and now her hands were clasped around each other, scratching hard enough that her nails were tearing off flakes of skin and blood was springing out beneath them. “I never  _asked you_  to consider my happiness that way. I’m an adult. If you really felt that way, you should have told me, too. How can you accuse me of keeping secrets when you did it all the time?”  
  
Harry closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, since he could feel the magic building up in dangerous levels against his skin.  
  
 _Draco was right. She never asked to be managed. I should have realized that.  
  
I should have done something like this long since. _  
  
“You’re right,” he said, opening his eyes and looking at her.  
  
Ginny stared at him, caught off-balance like someone who had been building up to a run and then had her opponent give up the race. “What did you say?”  
  
“You’re right,” Harry repeated. “I wasn’t sensitive enough. I didn’t notice. I didn’t talk enough.  
  
“And I never  _will_  be able to, because I can’t be what you need, either. I can’t be someone who doesn’t have dreams of Draco. I can’t be the perfect father of your children who makes you love them because I love them, too.  
  
“And most of all, I can’t be that hero you need, Ginny. I won’t overcome the obstacles you need overcome all the time, and I won’t be perfectly loving and forgiving. This—I can’t forgive this. I can’t forgive that you almost poisoned me. And you didn’t know about the specific symptoms, maybe, but you knew that Dreamless Sleep was dangerous.” Harry’s head was pounding, his vision blurring. He wondered almost clinically if he would cry if he stayed here much longer. “I can’t read your mind. Your motives, as you tell them to me here, don’t convince me. It’s through, Ginny. I’m walking away now.”  
  
“Harry, you can’t.” Ginny was sighing now, like she did when confronted with James’s antics on his toy broom. “We have to stay together because of the marriage vows. The children—“  
  
“Are apparently restricting your freedom,” said Harry. “And I don’t know what you’re capable of anymore. What you say makes sense, but—how that could have led you to think that slipping me the Dreamless Sleep was a good thing, instead of  _talking_  to me about it more?”  
  
“You didn’t  _listen_  to me when I talked to you!”  
  
“Did Hermione?” Harry asked. The tears were squeezing the corners of his eyes. He wasn’t sure what he was mourning. Maybe the death of his marriage, maybe just the extent to which  _he’d_  done damage to it.  
  
“I like to think so,” said Ginny. “But none of the advice she offered was practical. She just told me to talk to you again, and—well, you know what it’s like when I do.” She laughed. The sound was bitter. “I was caught in a trap no matter which way I turned, Harry. You say that you can’t be the hero for everything, but when you were deaf to me, I needed  _someone_  who would be.”  
  
“Why didn’t Hermione talk to me?” Harry whispered.  
  
“Because I swore her to secrecy, of course,” Ginny said, looking at him like he was mad.  
  
Harry shook his head. It was just all too much. And talking to her about it would only spin them around in further circles, with Ginny refusing to see what she had done wrong and Harry condemned to mistrusting all her words.  
  
All he had left was this.  
  
“I’m going,” he said. “I’m taking the children with me—“  
  
“You  _can’t do that_ —“  
  
“Because I don’t know what the hell you’d do with them, now,” Harry said. His voice was dull. Everything about his feelings was dull, as if they were knives that hadn’t been sharpened in weeks, cutting away at him. “They restricted your freedom, you didn’t want Lily, you love them now but you were absolutely sure that you needed a father in the same house for them even if he was getting sick because of lack of dreams—“  
  
“I’m not a monster,” Ginny said, her voice steel. “I won’t let you make me into one. I told you, I love my children.”  
  
“But I don’t  _know_  that,” Harry whispered. “I don’t understand anything anymore. As you say, I wanted children. I know that I can take care of them. I’m not sure about you. Someone can be a good person and still incapable of taking care of children properly, Ginny. I won’t use them as pawns against you. I’m not sure that you won’t use them as pawns against me. You’re already trying—”  
  
“You  _can’t_ —“  
  
“I can and I will.” Harry looked into her eyes. He didn’t recognize her. He wondered if he would have at any point during their marriage. “I would rather go without sex for the rest of my life, and negotiate out all the delicate points of having our children visit you, than stay with you for one moment more.”  
  
He turned and walked out. He would have to fetch his wand from Draco, and Summon his clothes, and Tutela, and the other things that were his and that he might need from this house.  
  
He was dazed with pain, and ending, and the need for sleep. He wanted to go away. He wanted to fold himself up in Draco’s embrace and shelter for a while from the world.   
  
He wasn’t sure that he deserved it, when he’d played such a part in destroying his own marriage and apparently done everything wrong no matter how hard he’d tried, but that was what he wanted.  
  
*  
  
Luckily for Draco, Weasley had listened to what he had to say about taking the children to the Manor and simply nodded.  
  
“Might be safer for them behind the wards, anyway,” he said, and then turned to pick up Lily, who lay sleeping on the bench next to him, and handed her to Draco. “Here, take her. You do know how to hold a baby, right?” Amusement bubbled under the surface of his voice.  
  
Draco almost snapped that of course he did, but he quickly found out that holding Scorpius and holding a little girl were different. Lily’s bright brown eyes were fixed on him with what seemed to be more innocence, and it had been a long time since Draco had held a child this small. He went quiet at the warmth against his chest, and for a time it helped him to stop thinking about what might be happening in the house. He hadn’t smelled the sharp ozone smell of Dark magic, at least, and Weasley had said that his wife was inside with his sister and would stop any incipient duels.  
  
“Why are you being so pleasant about this?” he asked, his voice muffled, since he had his head bowed over Lily.  
  
Weasley didn’t answer. Draco looked up to meet a thoughtful gaze, somewhere between rueful and wistful.  
  
“I’ve watched Harry’s marriage falling apart for much longer than he realizes,” Weasley said quietly. “But I always thought I was mistaken. Hermione didn’t want to talk about it. And Harry seemed happy. I’ve never been the keenest observer. Emotional range of a teaspoon, Hermione tells me.” He shrugged. “But you learn patience as an Auror, so I thought I would at least wait and see whether I was right or not. You—you’re not the end of their marriage I expected, but you’re a lot better than what it  _could_ have been. And Harry’s in love with you. I can tell. I’ll accept it for his sake.”  
  
Draco looked away. He hoped, more strongly than ever now, that Harry’s friends never found out he had killed George.  
  
Harry walked out of the house.  
  
Draco stood up. Harry’s sons, who had continued to play with toy wands, oriented on their father and ran over to him, babbling. Harry put his hands gently on their heads, and smiled, and Draco was grateful to see a spark of joy in him after all, in the middle of his desolation.  
  
“My wand, please,” Harry said, turning to him.   
  
Draco paused, both because he held Lily and because he didn’t know what Harry was going to do with the wand. But Harry just shook his head. “It’s over,” he said. “I know it won’t work, even if she doesn’t. I’m just going to Summon my clothes and Tutela and the rest of what I want, and get the hell out of here.”  
  
“She accepted your taking the children?” Draco asked warily.  
  
“Not accepted it,” said Harry. “But she confessed that she didn’t want Lily when she was pregnant with her. That’s—I don’t know what it says. Bad things about me, I think, more than about her. But I want them more than she does. That alone—“ He broke off.  
  
Draco gave his wand back in silence. This wasn’t the same Harry who had walked into the house, who was silent in the midst of his frightening, flaring anger. This was a Harry who looked as though he had listened to someone he loved die screaming.  
  
Harry turned and aimed his wand at the house, incanting several Summoning Charms. The Guardian Angel was the first to come flying out, locked in her cage. The moment Harry unlocked the door, she flew up and fastened her talons to his shoulder, hooting and cooing in a mixture of tenderness and rage that Draco found endearing. At least he would have help in taking care of Harry.  
  
As the rest of Harry’s possessions came flying, the door opened. Despite Granger’s attempts to hold her back, Harry’s wife was walking across the lawn, staring at Draco and then away. “Harry,” she called.  
  
Harry stiffened and shook his head, looking aside.  
  
“Harry, we can still make this work, if you just try a little harder—“  
  
Draco wanted to kill her where she stood, but Harry had already gathered his possessions around him, shrunk them, and taken his sons’ hands. A moment later, they Apparated out.   
  
Draco followed with Lily, leaving Weasley and Granger to deal with the aftermath. He wanted to get back home and settle the children as soon as possible.  
  
And then he would make sure that Harry went to  _sleep_ , damn it.  
  
Come to think of it, given how delayed the dreams had been, it might not be a bad idea for him to join in.  
  
*  
  
Harry was perplexed.  
  
He’d taken some time to comfort the children and ensure that they settled in—as long as he could before Draco shepherded him off, at least. Harry’s vision was shutting down by then, and he could feel gray fuzz snowing across his brain, so he accepted the dismissal inherent in Narcissa’s words and Draco’s actions, and went to bed. He had expected to start having dream visions the moment he lay down.  
  
Instead, he was standing in the middle of a vast, empty space with stone walls, something like one of the many rooms that Harry supposed must exist under Malfoy Manor. He turned in a circle, looking up at the ceiling, and sniffed. The air smelled stale. He pinched his skin. It hurt.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
He turned quickly. Next to him was Draco, looking as bewildered and out-of-sorts as he had when Harry had last seen him awake. He looked around several times, then turned to him and frowned. “What do you think this is? It seems to be an odd dream.”  
  
Harry swallowed. He could smell Draco’s scent, and he could feel the stretch of skin along his side when he moved, showing that the scar of the sixth life-debt was still there. This wasn’t a memory of another life, or a dream of something that could have been. This was  _them_.  
  
He remembered how the dreams had changed after the fifth life-debt, and wondered if they could have changed yet again. Or maybe the change had something to do with the fact that he hadn’t dreamed in entirely too long.  
  
He edged forwards, and laid his hand against Draco’s cheek. He was shivering with desire. Draco turned to look at him with a slight frown; he’d been peering at the ceiling as if he expected to recognize the carvings along it. His eyes widened as they darted from Harry’s face to the hand on him.  
  
“Harry?” Draco whispered.  
  
Harry’s breathing sped up. He was touching Draco’s skin, sexual desire was racing through him, and the marriage vows weren’t reacting to punish him. At all.  
  
The wording of the wedding vows returned to Harry, as clearly as though he stood in front of the elderly wizard who had married him and Ginny in the Burrow’s garden even now.   
  
“ _Flesh of my flesh and spirit of my spirit, we are bound as one. We are loyal to one another. We need not ever fear disloyalty, because the touch of our desire on our flesh is reserved only for one another_.”  
  
“Our desire on our flesh,” he whispered.  
  
“Pardon?” Draco was still staring at him.  
  
“I can only touch Ginny when I’m in the flesh,” Harry said, his voice growing stronger. “But, realistic as the dreams are, they never counted. The vows never punished me in them, because they were  _dreams_.  
  
“And so is this.”  
  
And with dozens of emotions surging through him, too many for him to give them any name at all, he lowered his head and pressed his lips to Draco’s.


	30. An Intention to Seduce

Harry didn’t know what he was doing.  
  
That fact gradually began to tell on him through the frenzy of nipping and kissing and caressing; he couldn’t keep his hands off Draco’s shoulders and back and eventually his arse, or his lips away from his face or neck. And Draco was hardly  _complaining_. He was moaning, tilting his head back, his hair spilling around Harry in a series of light, fluffy touches, unexpectedly striking sparks from his cheeks and the hollow of his throat when they hit.  
  
But eventually they would have to move on from kissing to more complicated things.  
  
And Harry  _still_  didn’t know what he was doing.  
  
He began to step back from Draco, to ask what he should do, only to find out that he had a small problem: Draco didn’t want to let him go. The arms that had been around his shoulders immediately rose to his neck and yanked him back into another kiss. And it wasn’t that Harry  _objected_ , so much as, well, there was still the fact that he had no idea what to do.  
  
“Draco,” he whispered, and Draco gasped as if Harry’s breath across his collarbone were the best sensation he’d ever felt. Harry was tempted to say that it probably was and to try and persuade Draco to say so, too, but—well, it wasn’t  _true_.  
  
“Harry,” Draco said, or groaned. Harry shifted. His cock was making itself known less as a pressure and more as an ache.  
  
“I—Draco, there’s a problem,” he said, and pulled away enough to regain his breath, then placed his arm gently across Draco’s chest when he tried to lunge forwards and claim Harry’s lips again. Draco blinked and only then seemed to take what Harry had said into account. He bit his lip and looked somewhere between vexed and amused.  
  
“You’re going to make me wait again?” he breathed. “You’re about to say that you know how to make love to your wife, but not to me?”  
  
“That’s it  _exactly_ ,” Harry said, glad that Draco understood so well. “I mean, I don’t want to wait, but I don’t know how to make love to a man. Can you show me?”  
  
“Take the lead?” There was a glint in Draco’s eyes like the shine of sunlight off snow, as if he were considering the possibilities that would offer to him.  
  
“No,” Harry said, surprising himself by his vehemence. “Not this time,” he added, when Draco’s eyebrows crept upwards. “But—I simply—can you tell me what I can do so as not to hurt you?”  
  
“Never use your teeth in a blowjob,” Draco said immediately.  
  
Harry laughed in spite of himself. His emotions, storming through him when he first initiated the kiss, had calmed down considerably. Now he felt as if he could make love to Draco slowly enough to leave them both breathing when they were done with it.  
  
Draco wasn’t going to run away. He wasn’t going to refuse this opportunity with some platitude about how Harry should consider his marriage, which Ron or Hermione certainly would have said if they were here right now.  
  
Draco loved him.  
  
With that knowledge like sunlight under his skin, Harry held Draco’s eyes. His own voice was huskier than he had imagined it could be, more seductive. “I was hoping for more  _advanced_  instructions than that.”  
  
*  
  
There was a great, quiet gladness moving through Draco, like the presence of a sea serpent under the prow of a ship. It represented less danger—  
  
 _No, maybe it doesn’t. There’s no telling what it will be like to make love with someone I care for as much as I do for Harry, when I’ve never done it before._  
  
“First,” he said, “I really do like foreplay, and not as a duel, either. Can we go back to the kissing for a while?”  
  
“Of course,” Harry said, and then reached out, cradled Draco’s head in his hands, and brought their mouths together again.  
  
This time, he went more slowly and thoughtfully, but when Draco grumbled against his lips, he increased the pressure, though not the speed. Draco opened his mouth, and this time their tongues came together with care aforethought, not the accidental tangling they’d already experienced. Harry’s fingers were trembling, flexing, combing through his hair. Draco sighed in happiness, and Harry trembled more noticeably, so he did it again.  
  
Harry made an odd bending motion with his hips, and Draco realized smugly that he was trying to get pressure against his cock, like some randy adolescent boy.  
  
 _I wonder if his wife ever got him this excited._  
  
Then Draco dismissed the idea, because thinking about Ginny Weasley was hardly productive right now. He had not had enough kissing—he could never have enough kissing when he knew the person kissing him like he knew Harry—but he thought he was ready for the next step. He reached up and gently pushed against Harry’s chin, nudging him back.  
  
Harry went. The angle allowed Draco to get his first good glimpse of Harry’s eyes since the kiss had started again.  
  
Multiple knots in his belly and chest and groin tightened. Harry’s eyes were an odd, deep green, not quite black, more like the color of understory leaves in a forest far from the sun. His lips bore the marks of tongue and teeth, and his pulse fluttered quickly enough in his throat to be visible, but it was those eyes that captured Draco, and made him feel that they could do this, after all, and it would not be a disaster.  
  
“Good,” he said quietly. “Now, did you know that some men’s nipples are as sensitive as some women’s?”  
  
“Yours?” Harry guessed.  
  
Draco nodded, and lifted his hands to unbutton his robes, only to find that Harry’s fingers were already there to do it for him.  
  
“Lucky bastard,” Harry grumbled as he ran his fingers over Draco’s nipples, causing him to jump a bit, and then bent to take one in his mouth. His words emerged muffled as he licked and sucked. “Does nothing for me.”  
  
“It—does—something—“ Draco broke off with a breathy cry that he would have felt rather embarrassed about were this anyone but Harry. His hands flailed for a moment, and then settled on Harry’s shoulders and the back of his neck, as if that might provide him with a better grip to ride out what was happening.  
  
And then Harry, in a marvel of coordination, somehow managed to keep his mouth where it was but move one of his hands down so that he was gripping Draco’s erection lightly through the cloth of his robes—  
  
 _Why am I wearing robes?_  Draco thought, suddenly reminded this was a dream and that, if the sensation of Harry’s hand rubbing against cloth and providing welcome pressure with the heel of his palm was real, his nakedness might as well be real, too.  
  
Harry let out a surprised gasp, and tried to pull away again. But as far as Draco was concerned, there had been enough of that already. He closed his eyes, clenched his hands to keep Harry in place, and gave himself up to the strumming of his nerves that the tongue and fingers were creating.  
  
*  
  
Harry had expected to feel awkward sucking a man’s nipples, but, well—he had played with Ginny’s breasts, and he had never found that embarrassing. And she had liked it. If Draco liked this, then why should he complain or worry about doing something else?   
  
He kept his mouth moving, therefore, laving and licking, his lips working in concert with his tongue now, even as his hand tried to get used to the expanse of lovely, warm, _nude_  skin beneath it where there had been only cloth before.  
  
He kept waiting for awkwardness to pounce on him, but it never did. The most awkward thing about this was that he kept expecting it to be awkward, he thought, as he brought his teeth into play and bit gently.  
  
“Oh _arrrrh_ ,” Draco said, or some such sound that Harry was going to remember for later and use to taunt him with. His hands clenched down again, but Harry was salivating—literally—now in his desire to explore lower. Gently, he pushed his way free and slithered down Draco’s body before Draco could object.  
  
And then, for the first time, he was faced with another man’s cock.  
  
No, not another man’s.  _Draco’s._  
  
That was all he needed to get past the biggest moment of potential awkwardness, and to reignite his wonder and his hunger. He licked his lips and bent his head slowly, eyes darting up now and then to make sure that Draco had no problem with this. If he did, however, he was much too enthralled with watching Harry to voice it. He seemed to be holding his breath.  
  
And then—  
  
Then he was  _there._  
  
Harry opened his mouth wide, and then, after a glance at Draco’s erection, wider again. He  _did_  remember to fold his lips over his teeth before he started sucking, though. So Draco could not accuse of him of not attending to his lessons.  
  
And then—  
  
It was harder to hold in his mouth than Harry had expected. Apart from anything else, the moment Draco registered what Harry supposed was the warmth and wetness of his mouth, his hips thrust, and Harry found himself gagging and drawing backwards. He had always had Ginny lying on a bed or standing next to a wall when he did this, and he had been able to hold her hips in place more easily than he thought he would be able to hold Draco’s. Draco didn’t have the same kind of coiled muscle Harry did that came from hexing people and running away from those who tried to kill him, but he was far stronger than Ginny.  
  
But nothing as simple as the difference between men and women was going to defeat him, so Harry stubbornly lowered his head again.  
  
 _Especially when I think that I’m going to spend the rest of my life with a man._  
  
Or maybe not, but at the moment, Harry didn’t think he could want anything else. His hands clung to Draco like a dragon’s claws to a piece of food. Interest lit his body, made his legs and his knees and even his  _tongue_  tremble—which was a new experience—with want, and made him long only for this.   
  
Because it was Draco.  
  
He licked and sucked, and held Draco’s hips back as much as he could, and guided Draco’s erection, carefully, around his mouth until he found an angle that would let it point down his throat but not gag or stab him. He wondered if this was what he had heard people call deep-throating. Then he decided that, no, deep-throating was probably deeper still.  
  
He drew his head back slowly, and, holding just the head in his mouth, blew curiously out towards Draco’s balls. Did he like that? Harry had only had it done to him once or twice, and that was accidentally. Maybe—  
  
Draco shrieked and came.  
  
 _Well, I suppose he likes that, yes_ , Harry thought, while he was trying to decide if he should swallow or not. This was a dream world. Maybe he could spit it out on the floor and will it to vanish, and no one would notice.  
  
 _Worth trying, anyway.  
  
I think anything is, here._  
  
*  
  
Draco was attempting embarrassment by thinking that he should be embarrassed. He knew he should. But it was hard when all his muscles had gone limp with utter languor, and when he was with someone he knew would never make fun of him for his stamina.  
  
He did indeed see Harry turning his head to the side and discreetly spitting, however. That the white liquid vanished the moment it hit the floor of the cavern-like room…well, that Draco could deal with, since he thought it was only unfamiliarity and not disgust that made Harry do that. In due time, of course, he would teach Harry the pleasures of swallowing.  
  
Harry caught him as he drifted towards the floor and arranged Draco next to him. His hands were gentle, almost reverent—and there was another potential cause of embarrassment, if Draco had been in the mood. As it was, he felt—  
  
 _Well, that’s quite extraordinary._  
  
Draco stretched, making sure to keep it as unselfconscious as possible, and realized that it was no coincidence. Harry’s eyes  _did_  follow his movements with something like adoration.  
  
Draco had had no lover who did that. There was Marian, of course, and that had been indifferent and then it had been a disaster, and there were the infrequent male lovers he took because of the loophole in their marriage vows that said they could fuck whom they liked, as long as they didn’t do it under the roof of Malfoy Manor, the house they shared with each other. But those partners, though they’d pleasured him physically more than Marian had managed, had been just as furtive and hurried as he had, and after only the same thing. And they had made Draco feel dirty and shameful for seeking them out. It was  _only_  done to soothe his needs, and his parents had taught him that a Malfoy should never have only one purpose for doing anything.  
  
Not one had ever looked at him like this.  
  
And so no one had ever made him feel like a more mature version of his fourteen-year-old self, the self that he had been so sure would conquer the world.  
  
Harry wiped his hand absently off on the stony floor beneath them, then shifted and groaned a little. Draco smirked. Wishing his robes away had done nothing to get rid of Harry’s. “Having difficulties?” he murmured, and reached out to smooth his hand along the side of Harry’s right thigh, a few teasing inches from his groin.  
  
“Thank you for saying that instead of making some horrible pun,” Harry grumbled.  
  
“I’m not sure that having you think it is much better,” said Draco, and his hand skimmed back the other way. Harry was actually holding his breath, he noted with some amusement. Once again, he avoided Harry’s cock. “And meanwhile, you still haven’t told me what you want to do about this.”  
  
Harry hesitated.  
  
“Believe me,” Draco said, and rolled over so that he could come eye-to-eye with him, “after  _that_ , nothing you can say or do or ask for will surprise me.”  
  
Harry gave a shallow nod. The look on his face was unexpectedly fragile, as if he thought that his words would come out the wrong way and offend Draco. “I really would,” he said. “Like to.” He took a deep breath, reminding Draco of the way he had acted before they went up on their brooms against the Masked Lady on her dragons. “I would like to fuck you,” he said. “But gently.”  
  
Draco blinked, twice. He didn’t mind Harry asking for it; he had simply assumed that a straight man’s hang-ups would get in the way.   
  
“I have absolutely no problem with that,” he said. “And I can show you how to do it, too.”  
  
And Harry’s mask cracked.  
  
The fragility, Draco realized with a small, dazed gasp, had been nothing but a sheet of parchment over a blazing furnace. Harry leaned nearer and nearer, and still Draco couldn’t move, caught in a fascination not far from terror. Were someone’s eyes supposed to  _burn_  like that? Was it natural?  
  
“Good,” Harry whispered.  
  
*  
  
Draco had done his work better than he suspected, Harry thought, as he began kissing again, and this time without hesitation or holding back, now that he knew how Draco liked it. Harry had decided that it was all right for him to want things again. And now that he had, he would go after them with a vengeance.  
  
“First,” he whispered into Draco’s mouth, when he had him trembling and panting and writhing as if that alone would get him back to full hardness again, “I think that we should make this ground a bit softer.”  
  
He concentrated, and the grainy gray stone beneath them melted and flowed, reshaping itself like foam into a mattress. Harry half-rolled, half-pushed Draco back onto it—whatever the name for the movement might be where he pushed his partner along while never releasing his mouth from a kiss. He was stirring his tongue deliberately now, unhurriedly, making sure that he got the chance to taste every corner of Draco’s mouth.  
  
His desire had leaped to the point that he thought it would consume him alive if he didn’t find release, but the release didn’t have to be immediate. Which was fine, because from what he had heard, it would take some time to prepare Draco in any case.  
  
He did stand up when he thought Draco was panting too loudly to speak in interference, and began to unbutton his robes.  
  
As it turned out, he had underestimated Draco’s lung capacity. “You could just wish yourself naked,” he said. At least there were gratifying gasps in between the words, Harry thought. “You know, like I did.”  
  
Harry lifted his head and peered at Draco. He wasn’t sure what his face looked like, but it made Draco seize up for one moment, and then begin breathing again noticeably faster than before.  
  
“No,” Harry said quietly. “I don’t think so.” He stripped his robes off slowly and deliberately, shrugging out of them, and then reached up and began to pull off his shirt, aware that Draco’s eyes were dragging across every movement like a pair of hands.  
  
“But why?” Draco whispered. It took him three tries. Harry smiled, a smile that felt unfamiliar on his face. Of course, it was a long time since he had looked at Ginny with an intention to seduce her, and with anyone else it hadn’t even been an option until now.  
  
“Because I want to see your face when you see me,” he responded, and pulled back the shirt as if it were the cocoon he was emerging from.  
  
*  
  
 _Does he know how handsome he looks like that?  
  
He can’t. Or he would have quit the Ministry and become a sex slave for hire long since. He could make Galleons!_  
  
Draco couldn’t stop the chatter of his brain, as stupid and irrelevant as it was, as he watched Harry emerging slowly from his clothes. And  _emerging_  was the right word. Draco had the distinct sense that Harry was shedding layers along with the clothes—years of restraint, inhibitions that had told him he wasn’t allowed to be happy unless everyone around him was, politeness that had kept him from saying what he really wanted.  
  
And his  _hair_ , which curled in an untidy mess around his ears and the nape of his neck.  
  
And his  _eyes._  
  
Draco looked at the other parts of Harry’s body as he revealed them, but he never quite managed to look away from those eyes. Harry wasn’t guarding his emotions. Of course, he wasn’t good at it anyway, but now he wasn’t even trying. The looks he kept giving Draco were ravenous, devouring, demanding. By the time he stepped out of his pants and knelt next to the mattress, showing off long expanses of pale skin and scars and hard muscles, Draco was fully erect again.  
  
Harry deigned to notice it with a faint smile, but most of his attention was for Draco’s face. “Tell me what to do,” he said.  
  
Draco licked his lips. The mood had shifted again, from the playful, teasing validation of the blowjob to  _this_ —seductive, and heavy, and just a little dark. And he was so excited that he had to think carefully before he could answer Harry’s question.  
  
 _Damn, he really_  has  _scattered my wits._  
  
“Lubrication,” he whispered. “Wish for that.”  
  
Harry half-closed his eyes, and then held up his right hand, which sparkled with a clear oil that caught the sourceless light here with odd glints. “Like this?”  
  
“God yes,” Draco said, barely checking a moan, and then thought that was ridiculous, his moaning over  _lubricant_. But dream-world or not, it looked like nothing so much as Harry doing wandless magic.  
  
To know that someone of such power was close—well, Draco was sorry if anyone found him blameworthy for it, including Harry, but power was damn attractive.  
  
“And now?” Harry asked, sliding down between Draco’s legs and looking with an interest that Draco could hardly have credited a few hours ago at his arse. Draco lifted his legs and slowly spread them, knowing that he had nothing to be ashamed about in any part of his body. The only scars he bore were the ones he shared with Harry, in one form or another, and it was wonderful what magic one could work when one had almost ten years to care about it.  
  
“Cleaning spell,” Draco whispered.  
  
“Er.” Harry looked uncertain for the first time, and Draco wondered if he was about to ask whether Draco was sure he wanted this. But he only said, “A cleaning spell without a wand?”  
  
“Then don’t call it a cleaning spell,” Draco snapped. He was rather irritated that Harry was getting hung up on semantics now. “Just wish me clean, the way that you wished for the lubricant—“  
  
Harry shot him a look that shut him up immediately. Then he bent down, nodded, and stared intently at Draco’s arse. A moment later, he reached out, gently stroking his fingers down Draco’s entrance.  
  
Draco sucked in a startled breath. It wasn’t so much the feel of the oil on Harry’s fingers, though that was cold, but the fact that he could clearly see that the hand was connected to  _Harry Potter_ , whom it now seemed he had desired most of his life.  
  
“All right there?” Harry asked. His voice was soft, but he didn’t smile.  
  
“Yes,” Draco said, small-voiced, and  _that_  got him a smile. Then Harry turned back, fascinated again, as he worked one finger inwards.  
  
Draco let his head fall back, and it occurred to him that they could, after all, have wished him stretched and lubricated and relaxed in the same way that they had wished for the cleaning spell and the oil. But he rejected the option of mentioning it to Harry.  
  
It was for the same reason that Harry had stripped for him instead of allowing Draco to remove his clothes. Some things were better slow.  
  
*  
  
Harry didn’t know exactly when it had changed, but he no longer felt half-panicked and as if he would make a mistake at any moment. Beneath his excitement surged a high, heady confidence, as if he had done this again and again before, as if this were normal for him.  
  
But not routine. Harry couldn’t imagine that sex with Draco would become the routine, monotonous affair that it had with Ginny, no matter how many times they had it.  
  
For a moment, Ginny’s voice was there in his head, pounding like a storm.  _You think that now, and the moment you stop being so fascinated with him, then you’ll find someone else to fuck and convince yourself that you’re in love with them in turn—_  
  
Harry shook off the voice,  _banished_  it to nothingness like a botched Transfiguration, and then focused once more on Draco’s body.  
  
It was such a trusting act, for Draco to give himself up like this. Harry told himself that he was going to deserve that trust as he worked his finger in and out, drawing partially on hazy memories of the Gryffindor dorms and the half-transfixed, half-disgusted, discussions about what two blokes would do in bed together, and partially on his trust of Draco. Draco would tell him if anything hurt, if Harry did something that he wasn’t supposed to, or stuck something where it was  _not_  supposed to be stuck.  
  
“Two now, I think,” Draco said, his voice full of effort.  
  
Harry wanted to ask if he was sure, but bit it back.  _He wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t sure. And he’s not like Ginny. He won’t ask for something just to make_  you  _feel good and then blame you in silence later._  
  
Harry grinned as he urged in another finger beside the first. That at least was an advantage to having a selfish, Slytherin lover.  
  
More moments, more wonder at the strange tightness around his fingers—not a barrier, he thought, but an inviting warmth—and then Draco instructed him to put a third finger in. This time, Harry watched his face, and saw the moment when Draco arched with a rippling motion, his mouth opening in what would have looked like a yawn if the expression on his face resembled ecstasy less.  
  
Harry tried to sit up. “What did I—“  
  
“Somehow you knew about preparation,” Draco said, his voice high and tight, “and you didn’t know about the prostate?”  
  
“Just wasn’t sure it existed,” Harry murmured, and pushed a few more times, purely for the pleasure of watching Draco try to answer in between writhes and pants and pulls of breath.  
  
“Yes, it does,” said Draco. “And now, I think that’s enough for you to fuck me.”  
  
Harry swallowed. But he still wasn’t fearful, or hesitant, only aware that this was a moment which, at least for him, changed things.  
  
Carefully, he considered their respective positions for a moment, then withdrew his fingers and lifted Draco’s legs over his shoulders. Draco grunted approval and locked his ankles in place. Harry licked his lips, carefully aligned himself, and then—  
  
 _In._  
  
And there was bliss.  
  
At least three sources of it, Harry realized hazily, as he held still to give Draco a chance to adjust and keep himself from coming. There was the sheer, all-consuming pleasure of the thing, which would have been enough. And there was the fact that he hadn’t felt like this in too long, so he had a chance at release from the chains of the marriage vows that he had never thought he would have.  
  
And there was the fact that this was Draco, whom he had  _wanted_.  
  
He opened his eyes, though it took him some effort, and leaned forwards to run his hands gently over Draco’s torso. That propelled him inwards more than he had known it would. He gasped, and felt Draco tighten around him, maybe deliberately and maybe just in reflexive surprise, and he felt as if he were going to burst from the inside.  
  
“All right?” he whispered.  
  
“God, Harry,” Draco whispered back, and shut his eyes tightly, a sheen splayed across his forehead that didn’t seem like the glow of pain.  
  
Harry decided that would do in the absence of a “yes.” He pushed a little more, and found the resistance slowly melting, giving way to slickness and a heat that made him feel like laughing, though he wouldn’t have been laughing  _at_  anything.  
  
He held himself still, with a tremble in his thighs, until Draco forced one eye open and panted, “What—the fuck—do you need? A  _chart_?”  
  
Harry laughed aloud then, and began to thrust, the motions stronger and harder than he remembered making with Ginny—he had no fear of breaking Draco—while he reached down and began tugging on Draco’s erection with an insistence he hadn’t known was in himself. But, as wonderful as the envelopment was, he thought it would be worth nothing if Draco didn’t get an orgasm out of this as well.  
  
Generosity was sleeting through him; he was half-distracted from the sensations in his own body by the look on Draco’s face, the way he clutched the mattress Harry had dreamed up and hissed through his teeth, how he twisted his head to the side and shut his eyes as if that would aid him in seeing more than just the dim, distant wall of their dreamscape. Harry wished he could kiss him, but the angle was too awkward for that.  
  
And then, just at the moment that Harry’s body started to speed things up whether or not he wanted it to, Draco murmured, “You  _can_  go faster.”  
  
Harry pushed, and his hand sped up at the same moment. And that increased the speed of his hips again, and that in turn increased the speed of his hand, and his hips again, and his hand again, as if they were joined with a vibrating chain that transmitted impulses of power up and down. Harry made a choked sound that mixed up Draco’s name and the sentence, “I love you,” leaving him unsure of what he would have said.  
  
And then joy and pleasure rose together as one and burned him like phoenix fire.  
  
Harry’s eyes slammed themselves shut as random colors streaked across his vision, and his hand tightened. He felt wetness spray across his fingers. His body tightened so much that he gasped. And then the orgasm was drawn out of him in one strong, steady, continuous pull, as wondrous to experience for itself as for what it brought with it, and Harry collapsed on top of Draco, exhausted, trembling, sated, and spent.  
  
And he had never—  
  
He could not remember, even when his marriage to Ginny was new, feeling so utterly  _happy._  
  
He breathed heavily, and was silent, though he tried to convey his emotions by the way his trembling hand sought out Draco’s face.  
  
*  
  
Draco knew he should move. His legs were already starting to ache, and he thought other parts of his body would start if they remained where they were.  
  
But he couldn’t.  
  
It wasn’t just the exhaustion, or the fact that Harry had collapsed on top of him like a slab of wood. He felt the moment hovering around them on shining wings. They would undoubtedly have better times together after this, but there would never be another  _exactly_  like this.  
  
It was—glorious, perhaps. Draco had had little enough occasion to apply the word to anything in his life during the past ten years, but he thought he still remembered what it meant.  
  
Harry raised his head at last.  
  
And what Draco saw in his eyes was an invitation into openness, into a sheltering, loving protection, and into a kind of beauty such as he had never known.  
  
He had to close his eyes when Harry moved so that they could kiss. It was as instinctive as the shielding of his eyes before the sunrise.


	31. Out of the Mouths of Children

Harry stood for a moment in the doorway of the bedroom that Narcissa, or possibly the Malfoy house-elves, had chosen for his children, observing them in silence. Lily was in a cot finer than anything Harry could have afforded, one charmed to rock slightly whenever her soft breathing faltered. Al was curled around his pillow, small fists resting on it, his lip thrust out slightly as it always was when he was having a particularly interesting dream. James—  
  
James was awake.  
  
Harry hesitated for just a moment. And then Tutela swooped down and landed on his shoulder, hooting softly at him and nipping his ear, before she swooped away again to explore the house. The scar along his right side tingled at the same moment.  
  
He would never be happy with himself if he didn’t answer the question he saw in those eyes.  
  
“Good morning,” he said, very softly, and crossed the room to scoop James out of his bed. That, too, was fine, carved wood  _and_  stone, worked into one another with deftness that Harry suspected signaled house-elf magic. The room was enormous, the walls and floor a soft streaked blue. Wasn’t that supposed to be a soothing color? Harry couldn’t remember. “Do you want some breakfast?”  
  
“I’m hungry,” James said, which was and was not an answer.  
  
Harry nodded and carried James gently out of the room. A house-elf appeared to him with a bow as he hesitated, feeling lost—the children’s room had turned out to be in a completely different wing from the bed where he’d collapsed last night—and led him towards the dining room.  
  
Draco was there already, Scorpius balanced on his lap. He looked up with a faint smile when Harry came in. Harry smiled back. Even though he had rejected his wife and undoubtedly confused his children—facts he had remembered when he awakened—yesterday had also contained a wonderful occurrence that he had no intention of forgetting anytime soon. Draco already had a faint, secretive air to his smile, as if he wanted to show Harry that he had no intention of forgetting it, either.  
  
“ _Daddy_ ,” said James insistently.  
  
Harry realized only then that he was standing in the center of the room, holding his son and smiling at his lover like an idiot. He carried James carefully over to the table and then studied the chairs for a moment. They were considerably higher than the ones back at home—or, no, in the house he had shared with Ginny—and he wasn’t sure that James would be able to manage sitting in one and eating alone.  
  
Draco seemed to sense the problem. He gave Scorpius a piece of toast and then, as the little boy gravely ate it, waved his wand and smoothly Transfigured one of the chairs and part of the table into lowered, James-sized versions of themselves. Harry smiled at him again and set about arranging his boy and consulting with him and the house-elves about what he should eat.  
  
James ended up wanting toast, porridge, and a few slices of apple. Harry watched him closely, certain that he was about to flick the apples into Scorpius’s hair, and sure enough that was what James tried to do, in between one bite and the next, the way he always tried it with Albus. Harry caught his hand, took the apple slice away, and ate it himself.  
  
James sat back with a scowl and folded his arms over his stomach, proclaiming himself done, even though there was still plenty of food in front of him—something he would never have been allowed to get away with if they were still living with Ginny. Harry stared at him, and then caught a small movement from the corner of his eye. Draco raised his eyebrows, clearly conveying,  _Do you want me to go somewhere else?_  
  
Harry shook his head.  
  
“Daddy,” James said. “Where’s Mummy?”  
  
Draco drew in a soft little breath, but Harry was determined not to let questions like this intimidate him or change his mind. He had known there would be questions, after all, when he suddenly hauled his children out of the house and off to live in the home of their father’s friend. There would be more questions coming, from Mrs. Weasley especially. Harry only hoped she would listen to Hermione’s version of events rather than simply blaming him.  
  
“Mummy is at home,” said Harry quietly. “She might stay there, or she might go to live with Grandmum and Granddad for a while. I don’t really know.”  
  
James absorbed this with a small frown on his face. Then he shook his head and said, “But why didn’t she come with us?”  
  
“I didn’t want her to,” Harry said. He had promised. He wouldn’t poison Ginny’s relationship with her children, or at least he would do his very best not to do so. That meant taking the blame on himself and not placing it on her, at least until his children were old enough to learn the real reasons their parents had separated. “I wanted you to come with me, but her to stay away.”  
  
“That’s not right,” said James, and his frown grew, darkening his brows in what Harry knew was a foretaste of the gale he would get if James didn’t receive satisfactory answers. “Mums and dads should be together.” He raised himself a little, then flopped back hard in the chair, daring Harry to contradict him.  
  
“Most of the time, yes,” Harry said. His voice shook, and he had to turn his head aside and cough. He waved Draco away when he would have stood up with Scorpius, though. He thought this was a matter that should be handled between him and his son.   
  
Scorpius stared at them with a curious little pout on his mouth. Harry wondered if he even remembered his mother. If Marian hadn’t been allowed to touch him in years, could he?  
  
 _There could always be something worse_ , he reminded himself.  _I wouldn’t trade my situation for Draco’s for anything in the world, even if it would make certain things easier._  
  
“So you should be together,” said James, and the scowl and the storm warning spread across his face.  
  
“I don’t want to be together with her anymore,” Harry said.  
  
James uttered a short, choked scream and flung himself out of his chair, heading straight for Harry. Long experience had taught Harry to be ready, and he caught James close and wrapped his fingers gently around the small wrists. James liked to kick and pummel and bite when he didn’t get his way. Harry gave him enough room to rage and flail a little, but not enough to actually hurt him.  
  
He shut his eyes as he listened to his son’s screams, demanding his mother back now, he wanted  _Mummy_ , he  _wanted_  her, he  _wanted_  her. He was remembering James’s birth, the sudden choking sensation when he held his son in his arms, the feeling that he would do anything, brave death a second time or Voldemort another, to protect his baby boy.  
  
Slowly, just because James was a child no matter what had happened to him in the past day, his shrieking and flailing stopped. He sagged against Harry’s chest, sobbing as if his heart would break. Harry let him go finally, and then cradled him close, murmuring into his ear, telling James that he would always love him no matter what happened.  
  
James finally looked up, and sniffled, and said, “But I  _miss_  Mummy.”  
  
“I know,” Harry said quietly. “I’m so sorry, Jamie.”  
  
“What about Al and Lily?” James demanded. “They’ll want her, too. They’ll want Mummy, and she won’t  _be_  here, and it will be  _your_  fault.”  
  
Harry felt a tremor shake his limbs, but he only said, “Maybe you can visit Mummy soon.”  
  
“Will you visit her, too?” James did have the most disconcerting talent for latching on to those things in their words that adults wished he wouldn’t find out about.  
  
“I don’t know,” Harry said honestly. “I can’t promise that, Jamie. Maybe if I think she can be trusted, but other than that—“ He stopped, realizing he was about to break his promise and speak badly of Ginny. “I don’t know,” he repeated, and ran his fingers through James’s hair. It had a tendency to act like his own and curl wildly after he’d spent a restless night in bed. “But I reckon I’ll always be here with you.”  
  
James snorted a little, and then turned and looked towards Draco. Harry glanced over at him, a little surprised he’d stayed. He would have imagined that Draco would have left, whether or not Harry gestured to him to stay, when James started sobbing. The scene couldn’t have been comfortable for him.  
  
“Why do we have to live here with him?” James complained in a voice that he probably meant Draco to overhear. “He’s not a real dad.”  
  
*  
  
Draco had watched in silence, tense and ready to go to Harry’s aid if he should need it, but Harry, though his face had shadows in it that had vanished when they were together in the world of their dream, had managed on his own. Draco was considering that James Potter was a child sorely in need of discipline when he realized what the boy had said.  
  
And what Scorpius had said in response.  
  
“He’s  _my_  real dad,” his son said, vibrating a little. “You take that back. And I won’t let you share my toys,” he added, apparently considering that enough of a punishment.  
  
James stuck out his tongue. Scorpius just stared at him, and then looked up at Draco, asking in silent horror why  _that_  was allowed. Draco had scolded him the few times he’d done it, and Scorpius, young as he was, already knew that it was an action unbecoming to the dignity of a Malfoy. Apparently he thought that everyone living in the house should, at least partially, be considered a Malfoy too.  
  
“It’s all right, Scorpius,” Draco murmured, for his son’s ears alone, and stood up. He knew that he would probably intimidate James a little by doing that, but that was all right; he had the feeling the brat could stand a little intimidation. “Why don’t you think I’m a real dad?” he asked James, as he had once before.  
  
The boy folded his arms. Harry shifted to turn himself into a more comfortable chair for him, his eyes wary but not forbidding. Draco was glad. For the sake of everyone in the house, he and James should be able to get along as well as possible, as soon as possible.  
  
“Well,” James said sullenly, “I don’t know. You’re just—not. I mean,” and he waved his hand around the dining room, “this doesn’t look like a real house, either. It’s too big. And why are we living with you?”  
  
“You’re living with me because you dad wants you to,” said Draco, and caught the relieved flicker of Harry’s eyes that meant he was glad Draco wasn’t badmouthing Ginny. Draco wondered if Harry even realized how well Draco could read him, how much silent Potter body language he had absorbed. “And I want to get along with you, but you’re making it hard. You’re acting like a little brat, and I don’t think that’s the way you should act in Malfoy Manor.”  
  
James’s mouth fell slightly open. Harry shifted and tightened his grip on his son. Draco jerked his chin up a little, hoping that Harry could read that as a signal for  _Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing_. Harry swallowed, but seemed content to let him do it for now.  
  
“I’m not a brat,” said James at last, though in a considering tone, as if he had to admit that he didn’t quite know what else he would be.  
  
“Why not?” Draco jogged Scorpius once in his arms so that he wouldn’t feel left out, and cocked his head. “What do you think you are?”  
  
“James Potter,” said James promptly.   
  
“But that’s a who, not a what.”  
  
This was apparently too much for even a three-year-old’s logic. All it got him was a frown. Draco sighed silently and shifted tactics. “You want to be polite when you’re over at someone else’s house. I like you and your dad—“ he gave Harry a look that made him blush and James turn his head back and forth between them in interest “—and your brother and sister, very much—“  
  
“Why does everyone always like Al better than me?” James complained, with just the beginning of a whinge in his tone.  
  
“Because he’s polite,” said Draco, catching up the chance to make a point. “And quiet, sometimes. You can make noise—Scorpius makes noise, sometimes.” He felt his son nodding agreement. “But not  _all_  the time. And you just made a lot of noise. I don’t think my mother or the house-elves will like you very much.”  
  
“Is this about being good?” James spoke the words in what Draco recognized as an incredibly good parody of Harry’s voice.  
  
“Yes, somewhat,” Draco said. “But also because there’s a lot of fun here that I’ll show to your dad and your brother and your sister, but not you, if you don’t behave.”  
  
It took James a moment to work that out. Then his eyes widened in alarm. Apparently he took the same threat more seriously coming from an adult than he did when Scorpius gave it. “I can be good,” he said. “If I really  _try_.”  
  
“That’s what I want,” said Draco, with a serious nod. “For you to  _try_.” He raised his voice. “Twibby!”  
  
That brought the house-elf who spent a great deal of time watching over Scorpius, and who had tended to Draco himself when he was a child, popping into the room with a small bow. Draco handed Scorpius to him, and saw James’s eyes widen in envy. He didn’t seem afraid of the house-elf at all, though Draco doubted he could have seen one before he came here; Harry didn’t have them, Granger certainly wouldn’t, and he knew the Weasleys were too proud to own one.   
  
 _When he goes to Hogwarts, he’ll be in Gryffindor, of course, and I’m sure Harry and I will get more owls from the school about him than any other child._  
  
Draco felt a sweet little shiver when he realized how long-term he was planning to make his association with Harry, but he pushed that out of his head. James was bouncing up and down in his father’s lap, reaching.  
  
“I want to go too! I want to go too! It’s not fair if he gets to go and I don’t!”  
  
Draco strolled across the room and knelt down in front of James, signaling Twibby to wait with a wave of his hand. “But it  _is_  fair,” he said. “I know that you can’t be good, and you’re not very polite—“  
  
“I can be polite.” James was scowling ominously, but he was biting his lip at the same moment, and for the first time, Draco saw something of his father in him. “I promise. I’ll be polite and good.”  
  
Draco considered him gravely, then glanced over his shoulder at Twibby. “What do you think, Twibby? Would you be willing to take James and Scorpius to the play-room, and make sure that they don’t get into trouble?”  
  
“Of course, Master Draco,” said Twibby, with an elaborate bow this time.  
  
“And you would keep an eye on them to find out when James isn’t being polite and good?” Draco asked, dividing his attention between the house-elf and the little boy now. “And you would bring him back here right away if he yells at you, or hits Scorpius the way he hit his father?” He could almost feel Harry’s smothered chuckle, and stifled the impulse to reach out and put his hand on Harry’s knee. The way he felt at the moment, it would probably just cause Harry pain.  
  
“Oh, yes, Master Draco!”  
  
“I’ll be polite!” James insisted in a loud whisper.  
  
“Excellent,” Draco said. “Now go along with Twibby.”  
  
James jumped down from his father’s lap with interest; he seemed to have forgotten all about his mother as he ran towards Twibby, who caught him with the ease of long practice, and then vanished. Harry stared after him for a moment, then sighed and leaned against the table, stretching his arms over his head.  
  
“Thanks for staying here,” he told Draco. “That can’t have been easy to watch, but—“  
  
“It needed to happen,” said Draco. “Or rather, it was going to happen, and I’m impressed that you were able to handle it with the maturity and the fairness you did.” He hesitated a moment, checking the state of his feelings, and then put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry relaxed even more, tilting his head to the side and resting his cheek on the knuckles, while his hand reached out and stroked the scars on Draco’s forearm. “I like to think I would be a tenth as fair about Marian, if Scorpius ever asks me about her.”  
  
“He probably will,” Harry muttered, tensing again. Draco didn’t want that, so he started rubbing the back of his neck, and Harry sighed in relief. “If nothing else, by the time he goes to Hogwarts he should know that most children live with their mums and dads, not two men.”  
  
Draco’s breath caught. Harry lifted his head. “Oh, shit, Draco, I’m—“  
  
Draco kissed him, out of pure thankfulness that they’d been thinking along lines so similar. With no, or little, sexual desire behind it, the itching wouldn’t start for Harry. Harry leaned into it, lifting his hands and cupping Draco’s cheeks to help matters along. Their breaths rumbled and mixed together; they sighed and breathed each for the other, and Draco felt a sliding thrill of excitement that made him pull away hastily before things could become uncomfortable.  
  
It was just as well that he did, because two things happened at once. The wards twanged to let him know that someone stood at the gates of Malfoy Manor requesting admittance, and a house-elf appeared in the room with a little squeak.  
  
“Master Albus has awakened and wants attention and breakfast!” he said. “And Mistress Lily will soon be up!”  
  
Harry grunted. Draco wondered if he found it strange to hear his children addressed by those names. Well, he would have to get used to it if he spent enough time in the Manor.   
  
“Just a moment,” Draco murmured, and cast a spell that would let him see the gates from several different angles, so that he could see who was there as well as what enemies might be lying in ambush.   
  
He had expected either pure-blood supremacists or a confusion of angry Weasleys, but Hermione Granger stood there, alone. She wore a set of formal robes, and if she seemed a bit nervous, well, Draco could hardly blame her. After all, this must be her first visit to someplace as nice as Malfoy Manor. Blood Reparations work would lend itself more to crouching in slimy holes and talking with wizards of doubtful birth than it would to visiting manor houses.  
  
She shifted, and then he realized she wasn’t alone. There was a small figure next to her, holding her hand. Draco blinked. It was a young witch, clad in soft pink robes. She had the red Weasley hair, but appeared, so far as Draco was adept at judging expressions on the face of a two-year-old who wasn’t Scorpius, sane and sensible.  
  
“Harry,” he said, catching his lover just as he was about to leave the room. “Is there a reason that Hermione Granger and her—her daughter, I suppose—are here?”  
  
Harry halted, a rich smile spilling across his lips. “The girl’s in pink, right?” he asked.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Harry nodded. “That’s her daughter, Rose. She insists on dressing in pink, even though Hermione tried to encourage her to pick some more gender-neutral color. Drives Hermione mad.” He chuckled, but Draco could hear the relief he was trying to hide in the sound. “If she’s here, and she trusted you enough to bring her daughter into your house, then I think that’s at least partially good news. From Hermione, if not anyone else in the family.” He paused, and then spoke the words Draco had been thinking. “Maybe she wants to apologize.”  
  
“We can only hope,” Draco muttered, and made the gestures that would lift the wards. “I’m still checking her for Polyjuice Potion.”  
  
“Understandable,” Harry said. “Thank you.”  
  
The words were empty compared to the hand that he brushed across the small of Draco’s back a moment later. Then he went to wake his children, and Draco went to meet his strange guests and invite them inside.  
  
*  
  
Narcissa was taken with Rose. Harry secretly suspected that she liked girls more, and that it wasn’t her fault Draco didn’t have a sister. But Lily was too young to make much of a fuss of. Rose was the perfect age, and Narcissa had whisked her away to comb her hair, which Rose liked, almost instantly.  
  
Albus and Lily had been awakened and fed. Al didn’t ask questions about where Ginny was, but just clung to Harry as if he were afraid his father was going to disappear, too. He was reluctant to accept Draco’s invitation to go to the play-room with James and Scorpius, at first, but when he heard his friend would be there, he loosened his tight hold on Harry’s robe and let himself be persuaded. He still kept glancing back, and Harry nodded reassuringly several times.  
  
Lily was happy as soon as her stomach was full and her nappy changed. She lay gurgling in Harry’s arms for a while, then fell asleep. When Hermione rose from the awkward tea and more awkward conversation they were having and gave Harry a significant look, Harry handed his daughter to Draco and also stood up.   
  
They left Draco making faces at Lily in the drawing room while they strolled up and down the corridor outside it. Harry wouldn’t put it above Draco to cast an eavesdropping spell the way he apparently had several times in the past, but so long as he wasn’t present for the conversation, that seemed to satisfy Hermione.  
  
“I wanted to apologize,” Hermione said quietly.  
  
“You have a lot to apologize for,” said Harry, which was as neutral a statement as he could make to her right now.  
  
Hermione hissed between her teeth, but when she looked up, the shine in her eyes was tears, not anger. “I know,” she said. Her voice faltered and broke. “Harry, I didn’t—I  _never_  knew those things about Ginny. I swear to you. I knew she felt unhappy and trapped in her marriage sometimes, but I never realized how much she relied on you to just make things better, even if you had no idea they were wrong.”  
  
Harry nodded. That sounded more like an excuse than an apology, though, so he kept his arms folded instead of reaching out the way it was clear Hermione would have liked him to.  
  
“And I’m sorry for trying to control your life as much as I have,” Hermione continued in subdued tones. “Malfoy has done a lot more for you than I have in the last little while. I see that now. The way you sat down next to him when we were talking…” She shook her head. “I have eyes to see when I open them, Harry. I promise. I  _can’t_ promise to control myself if he calls me that word he likes to my face, but I’m willing to apologize, too, and to act as civilly as I can all the while.”  
  
“Good,” Harry said quietly. “Now. You came here to tell me about the others, too, I think. Why didn’t Ron come with you?”  
  
“You’re right,” Hermione said. “He doesn’t blame you—either of you—and he—he and I had a good long conversation after you l-left.” She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing for a moment, then continued in a steadier voice. “He explained some things to me, better than I could have explained them to myself.” She smiled a little, small and watery expression though it was. “I don’t know what I did to have such a wonderful husband, but he knows I love him.  
  
“But he felt he had to stay behind today and comfort Ginny and Molly.” Hermione shuddered a little. “This has just destroyed her, Harry. She thought that you and Ginny would be in love forever. I can’t decide if she judges all marriages by her and Arthur’s, or whether she thought the children would keep you together, or whether she just never saw a sign of it coming and it’s the suddenness. But this, on top of the grief for George…”  
  
Harry winced, but since he wasn’t about to go back to Ginny, he didn’t have the one remedy that would have eased Molly’s feelings.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. But I can’t change my mind. Not with Draco and not with the kids. She can visit them. I’ll never let them forget she’s their mother. But I’ll monitor the visits.”  
  
“I know,” Hermione said, and then hesitated.   
  
“What?” Harry asked cautiously.  
  
“Ginny—she’s broken, too,” Hermione said. “I brought a letter for you from her, if you want to read it.” She took it from her robe pocket and extended it to him, slowly, as if she thought he would bite.  
  
Harry took the letter and stuffed it in his own robe pocket. Hermione looked upset for the merest moment.  
  
Then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded. “I understand,” she said. “I think it has to be this way.”  
  
“It does,” said Harry, squashing the sense of betrayal that Hermione had allowed herself to be a courier for Ginny. She was caught between two of her friends, and her position had to be only a little more comfortable than Harry’s right now. “Do you want to see the children?”  
  
Hermione nodded gratefully. As Harry turned to open the door and ask Draco for directions to the play-room, Hermione caught his hand and squeezed.  
  
Harry hesitated for a moment, then squeezed back.


	32. A Matter of Strength

Draco found Harry sitting in the gardens sometime after Granger left, his hands on his knees, his eyes blank. He stirred when he heard Draco coming, and managed to turn and give him a bland smile. “The boys still with Twibby?”  
  
“Yes. And my mother’s fussing over Lily, because she had to let Granger’s daughter go.” Draco sat down next to him. He didn’t like the look in Harry’s eyes right now. It was a mixture of resignation and desperate unhappiness. Perhaps that was better than having him think he  _had_  to secure the joy of every person around him, but a restless, helpless Harry wasn’t good news, either. “What happened?”  
  
“Hermione gave me a letter,” Harry whispered. “From Ginny.”  
  
Draco held himself tightly under control. He knew he should have listened at the door as his instincts had told him to do, no matter how much fun he’d had making faces at Lily and thinking wistfully that she might look up to him as a father someday, if she wanted. “And?” he asked. “Did she accuse you of not working hard enough to keep your marriage alive again?”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. “No,” he said. “She sounds—shattered, Draco.” And though Draco hadn’t asked, he fished the letter out of a robe pocket and handed it over.  
  
Draco opened the letter warily. It wasn’t as though it could carry germs from Weasley, of course, but he still wasn’t sure that he wanted to read a letter that could make Harry look like that.  
  
It was hard to read. It was absolutely rambling and incoherent, for one thing.  
  
 _Dearest Harry:  
  
I’ve done what I could. I tried to keep the realizations at bay, but you were right. You were right, and I was wrong, and there’s nothing I can do to change that. I can barely live with it. We both had our share of fault, but I can’t lay all the blame on you. I should have worked harder. I should have told you what was wrong.  
  
But it’s no good, don’t you see, our blaming each other and trying to live apart? It may take us years to live together peacefully again, but we must try. For the children, Harry, because they need their mother and because they love me and because I love them. It’s true that I didn’t want Lily at the time, but I’ve learned to love her since. Isn’t a mistake forgivable? I find myself more forgiving now, so I hope you are, too.  
  
And the life-debts aren’t as strong as the marriage bonds. I asked Hermione to research them for me. She was reluctant, but she did. The case of the most life-debts she could find was ten, between a single man and a woman who was married with the kind of vows that we have. And they wanted to give themselves to each other, this man and this woman, but they couldn’t. Because the marriage vows were still stronger.   
  
I don’t know how many you and Malfoy owe each other. Six? Seven? But it doesn’t matter, because the marriage vows are still stronger. It’s a matter of strength, Harry. It’s the strength of the vows, and it’s the strength to forgive each other and come back together again. It would be easy for me to hide in my parents’ house for the rest of my life, and it would be easier for you to stay with Malfoy. But that’s the kind of thing that only happens in stories. Living together and learning to accept one another’s faults is real life.   
  
Take as long as you need. But we have to live together, in the end. It’s the only way, and it will mean more to so many other people besides us.  
  
Love,  
Ginny._  
  
Draco folded the letter neatly, making sure the creases made a slitting sound when he smoothed along them. Then he handed the letter back to Harry and spoke the first words that came into his head. “You can’t be seriously thinking of going back to her.”  
  
Harry shook his head, toying with the parchment. “No. That was the end. I don’t think she realizes it, but I couldn’t bring myself to live with her again, or have sex with her.” He shuddered a little, then bowed his head.  
  
“But,” Draco said, while his hands clenched on the bench beside him.  
  
“I was wondering,” Harry said quietly, “what my children would want. Whether they would be happier with their parents living together than apart after all, even if they knew that we didn’t like each other much.”  
  
Draco ground his teeth and looked away. He had thought that Harry was resolved in his choice, and now it appeared that he hadn’t been.  
  
Or—  
  
Beside him, Harry gasped and moved his arm. Draco turned back to see him smoothing down his right flank, where Draco knew the scar from the sixth life-debt lay, his face bewildered.  
  
Draco relaxed. Harry was falling back into old, bad habits, or trying. That was all. Draco supposed he couldn’t demand miracles. Harry could think of his own happiness when confronted with good revelations, like that of Draco’s love for him, or with sudden explosions like his wife’s poisoning of him. But when another one came along—his wife’s letter, in this case—he would begin to doubt his former choices.  
  
“A good thing that I made you swear that promise to consider your own happiness, isn’t it?” he murmured. “There’s a difference between feeling sorry for her and giving your children a choice as to where to live, Harry, and letting those feelings and choices  _dictate_  your life. I would do almost anything for Scorpius. But I wouldn’t give up being who I am, because I know in the end it would make me a poorer father to him.”  
  
Harry managed to smile. “I still have a lot to learn about happiness, I think,” he said.  
  
Draco kissed him. “Give it time. You’ve safeguarded other people at your own expense for ten years, at least, and probably longer than that.” He paused. “Did you want to come in to an early dinner, or sit out here for a while longer?”  
  
“I need some time to think,” Harry said.  
  
Draco nodded, placed a hand on his shoulder, and then stood up and reentered the Manor. Tutela passed him on the way out, swooping directly towards Harry. Draco glanced back to see her settle on Harry’s shoulder and give a commanding hoot.  
  
He nodded to her. Harry needed time to think, but he shouldn’t be alone.  
  
Draco was only glad that they had survived their first potential crisis so well.  
  
*  
  
Harry didn’t know how long he sat there, staring, only becoming aware of Tutela when she flapped her wings in his face and demanded that he look at her. Really, it wasn’t as if he were trying to avoid her. He knew that she was there, and he wasn’t neglecting his own happiness  _that_  badly.   
  
He was simply coming face-to-face, for the first time, with one of the consequences of seeking his own happiness.  
  
He couldn’t help Ginny. He couldn’t reverse his decision. It would never be the same; even if he managed to preserve a polite front with her for the children’s sake, he would always be wondering when she would resort to something desperate and childish like poisoning him with Dreamless Sleep again. And the mere thought of touching her made his skin crawl.  
  
In truth, their intimacy had started to fade months, maybe years, before Harry had met Draco again. But meeting Draco had thrown it into sharp relief, since before then Harry had only felt nebulous dissatisfaction. He hadn’t  _wanted_  anyone specific other than Ginny, just something…more.  
  
And some of that was his fault.  
  
And now, he couldn’t save her.  
  
Tutela ducked her head until her beak was resting beside his ear, and held it there. Harry reached up to scratch the feathers of her nape, which ruffled with pleasure. He tried to take some comfort from the breathing warmth of her, so close.  
  
He couldn’t save  _everyone_. He had thought he knew that; it was certainly something one became accustomed to after years of working for the Blood Reparations Department.  
  
But being a hero was the only thing he knew how to do. And now he couldn’t be one for his wife, and it saddened him.  
  
It was all right to feel sorry for her, wasn’t it? That was hardly a betrayal of what he had chosen, of Draco or his life with Draco.  
  
 _But giving in to her would be._  
  
“Harry.”  
  
Harry was turning around before he realized the voice wasn’t Draco’s. He had thought it must be because one of his children would have used “Dad,” and one of the house-elves “Master Potter.” But it was Narcissa Malfoy who stood there in the darkening garden, her hands folded in front of her and her sharp eyes on his face.  
  
“Hello, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry said, starting to stand. “Are you looking for Draco? I think he might be with the children—“  
  
“Call me Narcissa, please,” said Narcissa, and picked her way towards him. Even though she wore pale blue robes that were no more confining than his or Draco’s, Harry thought she moved as if she were used to heavy gowns. “And no. You’re the one I came to talk with.”  
  
Harry swallowed several times, and then managed to get out, “Oh.” He had assumed that if Draco’s mother had any strenuous objection to their living in the same house, she had kept them diplomatically to herself, waiting to see what happened and how much Harry  _really_  meant to her son. Now he wondered if he had been judged and found wanting, or if Narcissa was about to tell him something he had done to hurt Draco. His heart pounded so fast that Tutela hooted in distress and leaned more firmly against his cheek.  
  
“Why don’t we sit down again?” Narcissa patted the bench, so Harry sat. She sat next to him, and turned around to study him coolly. Harry remembered the first impression he’d had of her, when he saw her at the Quidditch World Cup, as if she had a smell of dung beneath her nostrils. Now, she looked as if she were seeing straight into the back of his skull, and reading all his thoughts as though they were printed on parchment. Harry remembered Snape’s use of Legilimency, and shifted uneasily.  
  
And then Narcissa smiled.  
  
Harry stared. He had always thought that Draco looked more like his father, but his smile was Narcissa’s. It filled her pale blue eyes with something that looked like genuine delight, and irradiated the corners of her face with pure light.  
  
“What did I  _do_ , to deserve that?” Harry asked in wonder, and then promptly flushed again, conscious that he’d probably sounded stupid.  
  
Narcissa took his hand. “You gave Draco his life back again,” she said softly. “You protected him, and rescued him, and gave him an interest beyond the walls of the Manor. He loves his son, but it’s not right that he live solely for Scorpius. And he’s  _happy_  with you, happier than I’ve ever seen him. I’m not sure what factor was strongest, the combination of circumstances or the life-debts or the fact that you’re so obviously in love with him yourself, but it worked. He wasn’t even this joyful when he was a child; Lucius got his claws into him too early.” There was a complicated flicker of emotions in her eyes, making Harry wonder how much she missed her imprisoned husband. “So, thank you for that. And I wanted to say, if you doubted your decisions or worried that I disapproved, you should lay those fears to rest. I could only disapprove if you hurt him. He is full of fire now, and  _you_  are the source of it.”  
  
Harry nodded slowly. He still couldn’t  _quite_  believe that she was as happy with the sudden changes as she pretended, but—  
  
The scar sent its minty, buzzing tingle into his mind, and Tutela placed one talon gently on his shoulder, with the suggestion that she  _could_  put more weight behind it, were she so inclined. Think of his own happiness, their message was, and trust Narcissa. If she were unhappy, she would have to tell him about it. That was the mistake Ginny had made, assuming he could read her mind. Reasonable people wouldn’t act like that.  
  
Harry relaxed as much as he could, and said, “Then you don’t mind the children coming with me to take up residence in the Manor?”  
  
Narcissa laughed, and her face softened in a way that even that semi-alarming smile hadn’t managed to make it do. “Of course not! The house-elves can help take care of them. And I have wished that Draco and Marian remained together long enough to have a daughter, or several, in order to end the Malfoy tradition of only one child a generation. Your sons and little girl—“ Harry didn’t miss how her tone gentled at the mention of Lily “—are welcome here for as long as you choose to stay.”  
  
And her gaze grew piercing again. “How long  _do_  you plan to stay, Harry?”  
  
“For as long as both Draco and I want me to,” said Harry.  
  
He hadn’t planned the response beforehand, but maybe that was better. Narcissa reached out and caught his other hand.  
  
“Thank you for my son’s happiness,” she said simply. By the time Harry recovered from the wonder of her saying that to him, she had risen from the bench and was pacing back across the garden, picking up her robes as if to remove them from the mud. There wasn’t much mud, of course. The elves had groomed and tended the gardens to within an inch of the flowers’ lives, and stray mud would be much too distracting a sight for wealthy pure-blood wizards, Harry suspected.  
  
 _As far as I’m concerned, though, Narcissa can have all the odd little mannerisms she wants._  
  
*  
  
“So it’s true that you left your wife?”  
  
Harry looked up in startlement. He’d been playing with Teddy out in the Tonks gardens, but his godson had run back into the house to fetch a practice wand that he wanted Harry to see. He hadn’t realized Andromeda had come out of the house and was poised on the doorstep, her face soft and wistful as she looked at him. Harry wondered if she was thinking of her own marriage—also severed, though not willfully on the part of either participant.  
  
He nodded. “I don’t think that we were meant to be married anymore,” he said.  
  
“But you still are.” Andromeda’s brow wrinkled for a moment. “I thought the vows you took were the strongest type.”  
  
“They are.” Harry heard the bitterness in his own voice, and did his best to drain it out. He wouldn’t bad-mouth Ginny to anyone, because someday it might get back to his children. “So they still hold. But couples with these vows have lived separately in the past. That’s what we’re doing.”  
  
“Ah.” Andromeda folded her arms and looked down at her feet, and Harry wondered for a moment if she would tell him that she didn’t want him visiting Teddy anymore. It was a long shot, but Andromeda still didn’t have many fond feelings for the Malfoys, and she had lost her husband and daughter and son-in-law to people who believed as they did.  
  
Instead, she looked up at him and said, “I have struggled against certain aspects of my reality for too long to believe they can be changed. I hope you will find things different.”  
  
Harry impulsively stepped forwards and clasped her hands. They were warm and slightly damp in his, as if she were far more strained than she let on. Andromeda shivered and started to pull back from him, but Harry closed his fingers on hers, keeping her still. “If you ever wanted to talk to me about Ted or Tonks,” he said softly, “I’d be happy to hear about them.”  
  
Andromeda closed her eyes. Her words emerged in short jerks. “There was no—there was no chance for me to  _change_  what happened. If I could have hunted down Bellatrix—if I could have made her  _pay_  for killing my daughter—then I think I would have peace. But the war ended so soon.” She took several sharp, quick breaths, then added, “Not that I blame you for ending it. It is good that it did, so no one else had to die. But there is no chance for revenge on the people who caused the most harm. Do you understand?”  
  
“I think I do,” said Harry. He hesitated. “To be honest, I wondered if you would hate the Malfoys, because they represented the side that caused you so much pain.”  
  
Andromeda looked beyond weary. “I can’t hate my sister and her nephew, though I don’t want to associate with them until they can admit that I didn’t make the wrong choice by marrying Ted, and that Dora didn’t throw her life away on Remus. Maybe there can be reconciliation in the end. But it seems unlikely at the moment.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Harry said.  
  
“Grandmum? Harry?”  
  
Harry dropped Andromeda’s hands and turned around. Teddy was standing in the doorway of the drawing room, his eyes wide and darting back and forth between them. He had his practice wand in his hand, colored bubbles emerging from the tip, but he seemed to have forgotten why he wanted to fetch it in the first place.  
  
“Teddy,” Andromeda said, and went to him, bending down to kiss his forehead for a moment. Then she gave Harry a slight nod and walked into the house. Harry studied her back. It was proud and firm. No one would ever reckon that so much grief was still devouring her from the inside.  
  
“Did she tell you about Mum?” Teddy asked.  
  
Harry snapped his attention back to his godson. “Only that she still misses her,” he replied. “Why? Was there something else I should know?”  
  
“She misses her  _so much_.” Teddy turned his hair black. “It even comforts her that I’m a Metamorphmagus, because that’s one of the ways I’m like Mum.” He moodily floated his bubbles around the backyard. “Sometimes I think she wishes she were dead, too. And other times I catch her crying, and it’s always Mum she’s talking about, and sometimes Granddad. Almost never Dad.” He gave Harry a pointed look.  
  
Harry wondered for a moment why he seemed to have a talent for becoming entangled in family drama that wasn’t his own. But if he couldn’t explain exactly what was going on in Andromeda’s head to Teddy, maybe he could make it more understandable. “She didn’t have much chance to get to know your dad before he died,” he said. “Just a few months. She knew your mum her whole life, and she was  _married_  to your granddad.”  
  
“So it doesn’t have anything to do with Dad being a werewolf?” Teddy’s eyes searched his for reassurance.  
  
“I don’t know that for certain,” Harry said, after a moment of internal debate. As much as Teddy probably would have liked to hear that his family had been completely harmonious when his parents were alive, he hated being lied to more. “If you feel that you really  _need_  to know, then ask her. But bear in mind that if her grief is still this strong, she might not be comfortable telling you.”  
  
“I know  _that_.” Teddy’s hair turned bright red, then black again, and he banished the bubbles altogether. “No one wants to talk to me about my parents. Grandmum still grieves about them too much, and they have no friends that I’ve ever met, and you didn’t know them for long enough, you said.”  
  
Harry knelt down in front of his godson. “I didn’t know much about them compared to some other people who, yes, are dead or grieving,” he said softly. “But I didn’t mean that I wouldn’t tell you about them at all. Just that the information wouldn’t be complete.”  
  
“Please.” Teddy gave him a yearning look. “I just feel like I don’t  _know_  them, not really.”  
  
Harry swallowed memories of another ten-year-old boy who hadn’t known his parents at all, and couldn’t have picked their faces out of a crowd. He began to tell Teddy of the lessons that Remus had given him in conjuring a Patronus, and of the night that Tonks had come as part of the Advance Guard to the Dursleys’ house and tripped over things continually.  
  
By the time he left, Teddy’s face was a little more peaceful, and he waved cheerfully as Harry Apparated back to the Manor.  
  
*  
  
Harry jerked sharply out of sleep. Draco was shaking his shoulder, and by the look of his face, he wasn’t any more pleased about waking from one of their shared dreams than Harry was.  
  
“Whazzit?” Harry muttered. His tongue was tied up with his teeth, and he rubbed crusted sleep from the corners of his eyes.  
  
“Granger’s in the fireplace,” Draco said. “She wouldn’t tell me what had happened, just that I should get you immediately.” He stepped back so Harry could climb out of the bed, but added, “If it’s something like the dragons, then I’m coming with you whether she likes it or not.”  
  
Harry nodded, finished buttoning up the pyjama top that had been hanging around his shoulders, and padded past Draco and down a few corridors to the fireplace where Hermione’s head hovered in the flames. One look, and he found it hard to continue standing. Draco didn’t know Hermione well, so he had probably taken her fierce expression for a sign that she was angry. Harry could see her trembling lower lip, and the gathering wetness at the corners of her eyes that could easily become tears.  
  
“Hermione,” he said. “What’s happened?”  
  
“Harry,” Hermione whispered. “You needed to hear this from me.” She didn’t seem to notice as Draco took up a protective stance at Harry’s shoulder; at least, she didn’t object. “There was—another attack. The Masked Lady was planning, but she didn’t move in the direction we were all expecting. We had the supremacist groups under watch, but she made use—Harry, I’m so  _sorry_ , I swear it wasn’t my fault—“  
  
Harry took a deep breath, absorbing the reminder of the fact that they were at war. Draco’s hand clenched one shoulder; Tutela came winging through the doorway to settle on the other. “Tell me what happened, Hermione.”  
  
Hermione nodded, eyes huge, and managed to speak the words without breaking into a sob in the middle of them. It was better than Harry could have done.  
  
“She used dragons, Harry. On the Tonks house. It’s—completely gone, and there’s no sign of Andromeda or Teddy. We think they were burned to death.” 


	33. No Questions Answered

For Draco, it was like a dream.  
  
He had known, vaguely, that his mother’s sister and his own cousin existed. But they had never been a part of his life. How could they be, when his aunt had had the bad taste to marry a Mudblood and then her half-blood daughter had chosen a werewolf? A werewolf whom Draco had never liked, or had any reason to? Not even Harry spoke of Tonks and Lupin often, and he was the only reason Draco would have considered them as worth anything.  
  
But it was one thing to know that an aunt and cousin he would probably never see existed somewhere in the world, and something else altogether to think they had been taken out of it.  
  
And then to see the look in Harry’s eyes, caught between fury and blank misery, with the guilt not far behind…  
  
Draco wanted to follow him on the path he was taking, and avoid letting him fall into the vortex of his own emotions. He put an arm around his shoulders and turned to look steadily at Granger. “What can we do?”  
  
Granger, who had been watching Harry in terrible pity, glanced up at him. Draco thought she was glad to have someone to speak to, and permitted himself a mental sneer. He had done it for Harry’s sake, not hers.   
  
“The site has been put under the control of the Blood Reparations Department already,” she said quietly. “We’re investigating to see if we can uncover a clue as to why the Masked Lady chose to attack them—or to Andromeda and Teddy’s survival.” She cocked her head a little, and Harry stirred under Draco’s arm. “I was thinking that Harry might like to come along.”  
  
Draco didn’t think it was a good idea. On the other hand, it would have taken the force of a hundred Death Eaters to hold Harry back now.  
  
“What is this about?”  
  
Draco heard his mother enter the room behind him, and felt another sorrow smite his heart. Andromeda had still been—maybe still was; it would be best if he could convince himself to be optimistic—his mother’s sister. She was about to suffer a loss that Draco was almost sure she would feel more keenly than he did.  
  
“The Tonks house has been attacked, Mrs. Malfoy,” Granger murmured, at least keeping her voice properly respectful, and not sneering over Draco’s last name. “By dragons. We think—we think that Mrs. Tonks and her grandson might be dead. But we’re going to look, so that we can make sure we’re not dismissing evidence out of hand.”  
  
There was a long silence, and then Narcissa sighed and said, “Of course you must go. But my son will come, too.”  
  
“Yes, Mrs. Malfoy,” said Granger. “We’re—not sure why they attacked Mrs. Tonks, and there are some spells that might help us find out and can only be performed by a blood relation. If we find a body, that is.”  
  
Draco felt his mother’s hand brush against his back, and he knew how to read the way she touched him without further instruction.  _Go. Do whatever you can, and then come back safely, to me._  
  
He touched her hand in return, and thought of Scorpius, and Harry’s children. He would go into battle beside Harry, and he found the thought exhilarating, but there was no reason to take unnecessary risks.  
  
Harry himself was pale, but he nodded several times, as though Granger’s words needed his personal approval. “We’ll be along as soon as we can make sure we have everything we need,” he whispered.  
  
Draco was grateful for the extra minutes. He didn’t have his wand on him, he needed to dress properly, and he wanted to take along a few of the more battle-ready potions that he had taken to keeping on hand. Not to mention the fact that they would have to cage Tutela so they could Apparate with her.  
  
Given the way Harry had gone mad the last time he attacked the Masked Lady, Draco didn’t think it was a good idea to leave the owl behind.  
  
*  
  
Harry nearly didn’t recognize the house.   
  
He knew it was the right place, because he hadn’t Splinched himself, Draco, and Tutela in the Side-Along Apparition there. But fire had melted it, slagged it, burned it down to its foundations. He shuddered slightly.  
  
Draco’s hand, resting on his elbow, curled around his arm in question. Harry glanced up, and saw the concern in his lover’s face.  
  
He shook his head determinedly. He didn’t need to go back. He opened the cage, and Tutela hopped to his shoulder, a warm, comforting presence who hooted now and then. Then Harry walked forwards, steeling himself for more.  
  
If Andromeda and Teddy had died here, he might be the only one who would be able to confirm it for certain, blood relative spells or not. He knew what they looked like more intimately than anyone else alive. Ron and Hermione didn’t visit that often, and neither did Ginny. Andromeda had never encouraged visitors. Remembering the conversation she’d had with him about grief, Harry thought he knew why now.  
  
He only hoped that she was still alive to feel that grief. Regardless of what tortures she and Teddy might suffer at the hands of the Masked Lady, they could come back from most of them. Death, they could not.  
  
They started in the gardens, or rather the mass of fused sand and glass that had been the gardens. Nothing green and alive was left. Harry had to use considerable cooling charms before he could walk comfortably on the ground. He forced himself to lower his gaze and search carefully for familiar landmarks, as well as anything out of place.  
  
He frowned almost at once, and reached out to pick up something that lay just on top of the glass.  
  
“Not so fast, Potter,” Draco said, and then flicked his wand. The hot shard rose up in front of him. Draco arched an eyebrow, and Harry blushed and tried to pretend that he hadn’t nearly risked burning his fingers off to do something that simple magic could do.  
  
He turned his attention to the shard instead. It was large and white, with a faint iridescence to it, like mother-of-pearl. It seemed to be made of ceramic. It made a faint ringing sound when Harry punched it.  
  
“What is it?” he muttered.  
  
“I’m not sure,” Draco said, and then cast a charm Harry didn’t know, but which sparkled red around the edges of the shard. He shook his head when the red glow faded. “That charm would have told me if it was something I’d had contact with before. Whatever it is, it’s completely strange.”  
  
Harry ranged away, though Draco was never far from his side, and Tutela was swooping back and forth above him, now and then drifting low enough for her wings to touch his head. Harry had to admit it was strange and comforting at the same time. He did most of his Blood Reparations work alone; he hardly needed a partner to convince Muggleborns to come back to the wizarding world. For the first time, he wondered if he should have become an Auror after all, if this experience of companionship was what Ron felt all the time.  
  
There was no sign of a corpse, but so thoroughly had the garden been burned that Harry was not sure there would have been. He imagined, for a morbid moment, that he was walking just above Teddy’s ashes, or Andromeda’s bones. He imagined the dragonfire melting their faces, turning their eyes to jelly in their sockets—  
  
He made himself stop imagining it, especially when Draco gave him a concerned look, probably at the expression on his face, and Tutela perched on his shoulder and hooted into his ear. They were getting closer to the house, which had still smoked with too fierce a heat to let anyone approach when Hermione’s people first arrived. He had to steel himself for the fact that they might find answers there, and that the answers would be uglier than anything he had ever seen.  
  
He had to be strong. Whether Andromeda and Teddy were dead or prisoners, that was still true.  
  
*  
  
Draco hated everything about this place. His skin prickled unpleasantly with the heat. He had to continually stop and renew the cooling charms on his boot and robes. And he didn’t like the expression Harry wore, or the way that Tutela spent more time on his shoulder than in the air now. He was wrapping his grief up in rags and shoving it to the back of his mind.  
  
 _Well, what would you have him do_? Draco thought, as he floated another shard of ceramic, or ceramic-like material, into the air.  _He can hardly break down crying in front of all these witnesses, and you know that he wouldn’t feel able to take comfort even if you offered it right now. Leave it to his owl. That’s why you got her for him._  
  
He was still trying to decide how he should feel, and wondering if Marian had been here, when the first Inferius erupted out of the ground in front of him.  
  
The ground above it was glass and slag, a packed mound of gray and brown and half-white as firm as anything Draco had strode on in his life, but that didn’t matter. The corpse clawed its way upwards, the soil cracking and trembling and flying away from its hands, and then stood in front of Draco, hunched, rotting, jaws parting a moment before it flew at his face.  
  
Draco whipped his wand around in front of him and spoke, without thinking, one of the Dark spells he’d spent some time studying when he first knew this was war. “ _Memoriam revert_!”  
  
The Inferius screamed pathetically as Draco’s spell tore through it, a thin, keening sound that resembled the wailing of wind through rock. And then living memories exploded in its head and clashed with the Dark magic that had made and driven it, and it collapsed, pounding its own fists into its skull with pulpy sounds.  
  
Draco dodged past the screaming thing, heading for Harry. He crumbled a few more Inferi on the way, mostly by melting them or Transfiguring their legs into masses of hopping frogs and crawling grubs. He really had no doubt what he would see.  
  
Harry was turning in tight circles, casting furiously, gold and green light whipping from his wand. A ring of Inferi surrounded him. They were so intent that Draco wondered how Harry had survived so far.  
  
And then he actually caught a glimpse of Harry casting spells, and understood.  
  
Harry’s wrist traveled further than Draco had known a wand could work. His mouth was slightly open, even though he was probably casting half his spells nonverbally. He seemed to know instinctively when a monster was about to close in behind him, and he would whirl and leap and let the Inferi crash into one another. Strong as they were, they were also heavy, and once they built up momentum, they didn’t turn aside easily. They would smash forwards, and then Harry would leap away like a kitten taunting a lion, and he would land in the clear while they went down in a mass of dust and tattered strips of cloth. Meanwhile, his magic tore their faces off and sank their legs into the ground so they couldn’t move.  
  
Draco realized he had dropped too openly into admiration when a hand curled around his neck and yanked his head backwards. He screamed, but the sound was muffled, and the Inferius had grasped his wrist with its other hand, so he couldn’t get the wand up in time.  
  
He felt Harry’s green gaze on him as if they were connected with a mental bond, and then Harry crouched slightly.  
  
*  
  
Harry didn’t know how he managed to leap over the Inferi. He only knew that seeing Draco about to die tore a bolt of panic through him— _no, no, I just found him, we just fell in love, this can’t be happening_ —and then he was in the air, landing miraculously on sand clear of Inferi and ignoring the burning sting in his knees and ankles as he hurtled towards Draco.  
  
He cast the Cutting Curse without thinking about it, without worrying that he might slice Draco’s hand off instead. He knew it was already perfectly aimed, the way that he always knew when he was about to catch the Snitch. The Inferius’s hand exploded into a curtain of gray powder, and Draco was able to bring his wand up.  
  
But he still wasn’t going to be in time.  
  
Harry screamed, and his wandless magic rose and lashed out with a fury and force he hadn’t known himself capable of.  
  
The Inferius vanished. It simply—went. Harry didn’t know if he had melted it, or disintegrated it, or made it cease to exist. He was already beside Draco, examining the fingerprints on his throat, making sure that he could breathe, his half-formed questions coming out of him in great ripping gasps.  
  
Draco just shook his head, wordless, and then Harry’s vision went white-gold.  
  
He had braced himself to fight the pull of one of those tunnels the life-debts were fond of before he understood what had happened. The magic had appeared only briefly, healed the fingerprints on Draco’s throat to shadows, and then faded again. Harry had no doubt that he would have similar shadows on his throat if he reached up and touched them.  
  
He had saved Draco’s life a fourth time.  
  
“Eighth life-debt,” he murmured.  
  
“And I think there will be more,” Draco said, and then pulled Harry forwards and took his mouth in a kiss so ferocious that Harry couldn’t do much more than submit to it. Harry felt a sudden surge of gladness that he had a lover who was willing to do that, and that not even killing could turn Draco into a different person.  
  
Then the Inferi came at them again, and Harry turned to meet them.  
  
Now that he could fight side-by-side and back-to-back with Draco, their numbers didn’t seem as overwhelming. And Tutela was back by now, screaming and swishing past the Inferi, so silent and so keen-eyed in the dark that their lumbering swipes had no chance of catching her. Harry felt laughter rising in his throat. It was hysterical laughter, so he didn’t voice it, but even that felt better than the bitter despair that had started to consume him when the ring of Inferi he’d been fighting earlier pressed in.  
  
And then he fell.  
  
He didn’t know exactly how it happened; perhaps some piece of the burned ground had twisted itself out from under him and cracked open in such a way that his braced foot couldn’t take it any longer. Or perhaps another Inferius had actually burrowed up from under and grabbed him. But he was down, and he knew he was being drawn further away from Draco, and his casting of Cutting Curses at the arms that held him didn’t appear to have any effect at all.  
  
He raised his head and snarled, knowing he might die, but more frustrated than frightened. He was leaving Draco exposed, and his children without a father—  
  
A low flash of golden light exploded past him and destroyed the arm pulling him with a cascade of what looked like blazing water. And then the magic of the life-debt came in answer, and Harry knew he had the marks of hands on his legs, too, and that Draco had saved his life again, and shared the scar.  
  
He burst back to his feet and turned. Draco was watching him with a contented smile—not looking at the Inferius coming up behind him.  
  
Harry blew its head off just as the great arms reached for Draco, and there was a silent flash of gold-white once more, like lightning without thunder. Harry wondered idly where the life-debts had put the scars this time, since he had saved Draco’s life before he was wounded. In its passing, he saw Draco grinning at him, and felt a sudden surge of outrage.  
  
 _He probably let me save his life on purpose, just so that we would have ten binding us, like the couple Hermione told Ginny about.  
  
The little—_  
  
The ground rocked, and he was thrown from his feet. Seeing the fountain of blue sparks that rose from the north of the house, he didn’t think it would be a good idea to try and regain them. He crawled towards Draco instead, who had his head tilted back and was regarding the blue light with a gaping jaw.  
  
“What was that?” he demanded.   
  
“Hermione,” Harry said, feeling warmth race through him as all the Inferi in sight turned to stone. “She developed a spell during the last few years that could cope with infestations like this, because a few of the pure-blood supremacy groups we pursued talked about experimenting with Inferi. But it’s enormously complicated—more a ritual than a spell, really—and she would have had to have people defending her and taking the pressure away from her before she could perform it. She must have had just long enough.”  
  
Draco leaned on him silently. Harry stroked his forehead, and then glanced curiously down at him. Sure enough, his robes had shredded around the hems, and Harry could see the silvery marks of wide-spread hands on his ankle.   
  
Draco touched his throat and smiled wryly at Harry. “I reckon that we’ll have a chance to look for that last scar later,” he murmured. “For now, should we look for your godson and his grandmother?”  
  
Harry nodded, and offered a hand to help Draco to his feet.  
  
*  
  
Nothing. And nothing, and nothing.  
  
That was the best thing that could be said of their evening’s expedition, Draco thought, warming his hands with a cup of tea as he stood near one half-crumbled and blackened wall of the Tonks home. They had found no trace of Andromeda and Teddy Lupin, no sign of a struggle. The Masked Lady might have killed them and burned their bodies thoroughly. On the other hand, she might have taken them with her. Harry had described how frail and grief-filled the old woman was. A threat to her grandson, the only family she had left in the world, would probably have been enough to make her roll over.  
  
Which didn’t answer the question of what the ceramic shards were, or how the Inferi had come to be buried under the grounds.  
  
Granger strode towards him. Draco took a moment to watch her in admiration. He would never  _admit_  to that admiration, of course, but he had felt the sheer strength of the magic that washed over him when the Inferi turned to stone, and he knew how much concentration and power that must have taken. Granger was still a Mudblood and an interfering bitch, but she knew her work.  
  
At the moment, she was an interfering bitch who looked half-frantic, Draco thought. He put his cup down and stepped forwards to meet her halfway.  
  
“What is it?” he asked, trying to run everything his father had told him about Inferi through his mind. He wasn’t an expert on the subject, but he might know more than Granger’s team of “good” wizards and witches did.  
  
“I need you to come with me right away,” Granger hissed. “Ginny’s here, and she’d made her way to Harry before I saw her. With Harry in the mood he’s in…” She shook her head and turned around again.  
  
Draco followed quickly. Though he hadn’t seen where his lover had gone—he had known that Harry wanted time to mourn privately, and he had trusted Tutela to keep an eye on him—he knew where he must be. After all, he could feel the magic building up from one corner of the gardens, beneath a series of twisted shapes that might have been the roots of a toppled tree.  
  
And if Harry was already that angry…  
  
 _Stupid Weasley_. Draco thought she deserved to lose her life. But he knew that Harry wouldn’t agree, and it was for Harry’s sake, not the wench’s, that he hurried.  
  
He found Harry leaning on the tree, his hand splayed as if he would like to dig his fingers in but knew the crumbled bark wouldn’t stand it. And Weasley was in front of him, tears streaming from her eyes, her fingers reaching out as if she could drag him back to her side.  
  
“It’s for the children’s sake, yes,” she was saying in an impassioned voice as Draco came up. “But also for mine, and yours. I  _love_  you, Harry. I miss you along with James and Al and Lily. And you can’t say that you never loved me, that you don’t miss me, that the bond of trust has been so broken that you wouldn’t want me near you again, after a lot of time and work on my part—“  
  
And then Draco came up beside Harry, and the world broke apart around them.  
  
Draco had thought the tunnels that the life-debts tried to draw them through before this were insistent. He had not known the half of it.   
  
His feet left the ground. He could hear the hungry wailing like the cry of an Inferius, like the bellow of a dragon in mating time. The light swarmed and bulged and rippled with strange shapes wherever it liked. He could make out squiggles of brown and orange in the gold and white, but he wondered if they were actually real or just the result of his eyes desperately seeking any other color.  
  
The air opened in front of him, twisting and lifting as if he had already traveled through part of the tunnel, and he saw an image of the Manor’s gardens, in the dawn of an autumn morning, with Harry in his arms and Tutela fluttering around them, while their children, Scorpius and Al looking at least four years old, played on the grass, and Lily toddled about, waving her fists—  
  
The vision grew sharp as if it was edged with diamonds, and Draco could feel it breathing itself into reality.  
  
And then Harry snarled, “Teddy has to be there!” and the tunnel dimmed and dropped them and vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.  
  
Draco, breathing hard, reached down to Harry, who had dropped to crouch on the ground. He couldn’t help wishing that that vision was real, but they would have to survive the Masked Lady and somehow settle matters with Marian and Weasley first.  
  
And then Harry threw back his head and  _screamed_.  
  
Draco, stricken, dropped to his knees beside his lover and wrapped his arms around him. Dull, sickly light was welling from Harry’s body—gold-white on the side closest to Draco, and brown- red like dried blood on the side closest to his wife. Harry was shuddering as if he were about to be ripped in two. Draco swallowed fear and tried to hold on, since he didn’t think he could do anything else.  
  
“Ginny,  _go_!” he heard Granger’s voice bellow.  
  
She Apparated out, and the red light vanished. The gold-white clung for a moment, eddying around Harry like mist, as if it wanted to be sure that he would be there for it to manipulate in the future. Then it vanished, too, and Draco was left with a shaking Harry and a Granger whose eyes looked as old and burnt-down as the ashes around them.  
  
“What was that?” he asked her.  
  
“ _That_ ,” Granger said quietly, “was your life-debts and Harry’s wedding vows engaged in a struggle against each other. We saw the red light at Harry and Ginny’s wedding, when they bonded.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m afraid that you’ll create so many life-debts they’ll become  _exactly_  as strong as the wedding vows.”  
  
“And what happens then?” Draco asked.  
  
“I don’t know,” Granger said tiredly. “Every other record of a similar situation I can find had the involved partner  _staying_  with his or her spouse, Malfoy.”  
  
And she turned and walked away, leaving Draco there on that field of no answers whatsoever, with the horrid image of Harry actually being ripped in half.


	34. Life-Debts and Marriage Vows

Harry waited a long moment before he tried to get his hands beneath him and rise to his feet. That was partially to give himself time to stop trembling, but also to give Draco time to move away from him.   
  
Draco stayed right where he was. Harry let out a quiet breath, then leaned on his lover’s shoulder as he stood. Draco supported him without comment, which let Harry turn and face Hermione.  
  
“I need to know something,” he said. He winced at the hoarseness of his own voice. Had he been screaming? He couldn’t remember doing so—only the intense pain as the tunnel had done its very best to rip him apart, and Harry had fought to stay both whole and by Draco’s side. “You said that the couple you studied who had ten mutual life-debts still had to yield to the marriage vows in the end. The woman stayed with her husband.”  
  
“Yes.” Hermione’s face was pale and cautious. Harry couldn’t blame her. She had just seen what it might cost Harry to remain married to Ginny. It was a more graphic demonstration than Harry had wanted to give her. The tunnels and the other consequences of the life-debts had more often happened to him when he was alone before, or at least when he was alone with Draco.   
  
“We have ten life-debts now,” Harry said. He pressed Draco’s arm, to let him know that he was including Draco as part of the discussion. “What happens if we accumulate more than that? How many more do we have to have for the life-debts to become stronger than the marriage vows? And what happens in a case like that?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Hermione breathed. She had raised one hand to her mouth now. Harry wondered if she was trying to keep from vomiting or crying. “There’s no case like that on record. Most wizards and witches who have anywhere near that many have already given themselves to each other. The—the vows and the life-debts in combination are rare.”  
  
Harry shut his eyes and nodded. He had suspected that he was swimming around in the waters of the unknown again. Since the day Voldemort had marked him with that curse scar, magic had never acted  _normally_  around him.  
  
“But I know one thing,” Hermione said.  
  
Harry opened his eyes to look at her. Her voice was stronger now, and he suspected she was hoping that the gift of knowledge, the only one she could offer, would be enough to soothe his pain and panic.   
  
“The life-debts and the marriage vows alike are some of the most powerful magic known to the world,” Hermione said. “They both  _must_  be true, if they ever reach equal strength. You  _must_  stay married to Ginny, but you also have to be able to give yourself to Malfoy if you choose to fulfill the debts that way.” She very carefully didn’t look at Draco. “That’s the way these laws of magic work. They both  _must_  happen.”  
  
“But they can’t both happen,” Harry whispered.  
  
“I’m telling you they  _have_  to.” Hermione stood a little straighter, and looked him directly in the eye. “I’ll research further, and learn what I can, and how these both being true might affect you. But they’re true, Harry. They  _are_.” Her face softened then. “And I’ll keep looking for Andromeda and Teddy, and researching the Masked Lady. I have the time and the resources to do that. Why don’t you go home—I mean, back to the Manor? You look terrible.”  
  
She walked away then. Harry shut his eyes and let Draco’s arm around his shoulders guide him away.  
  
He knew what he had to do. Really, it was obvious, wasn’t it? He had his children and Draco to think about. And even though he had tried to put Ginny out of his mind and his life, it didn’t seem as though he would be allowed to. And he really should put these emotional problems behind him as soon as possible, so that he could concentrate on finding Teddy and Andromeda and fighting the war. The war wouldn’t wait for him to flop around and figure things out.  
  
Harry only hoped that Draco would be amenable to his solution.  
  
*  
  
Draco kept a wary eye on Harry as they arrived back inside the Manor’s wards. Harry had fallen far too silent towards the end, just after Granger had told them they should go home. He was chewing his bottom lip, and his eyes had gone far away. He greeted Narcissa and told her his part in the battle coherently enough; he went in to reassure his children, who had awakened and begun crying when they found him gone. But still there was that shadow, that reserve, that growing certainty in his eyes that Draco thought would probably make him want to strangle the other man. When had Harry  _ever_  done something productive while he looked like that?  
  
When Harry turned to go back to bed, Draco caught his shoulder. Harry turned and looked at him soberly.  
  
Tutela promptly swooped onto his shoulder, nibbling at his ear, but Harry didn’t react to the owl. If the scar on his side was tingling, then he didn’t seem to feel that, either. He stared into Draco’s face for a moment and then nodded. “I’m tired, but I  _do_  think we should talk,” he said, and let Draco guide him to his bedroom.  
  
Once there, Tutela took to her perch. Harry sat on the bed and motioned for Draco to sit on the chair. Draco curled his lip, not liking the distance between them, wondering if it had to do with whatever Harry was planning.  
“Hermione said that both the life-debts and the marriage vows had to be true,” Harry began, in a voice of controlled intensity. “That makes me wonder if there’s a way to let them both become true and not harm us.”  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”  
  
“I can’t break the marriage vows with Ginny,” Harry said. “On the other hand, I have absolutely no desire to go back to her. It’s just something that has to exist, like the loss of a limb, and which I have to live with.  
  
“But the life-debts.” He shifted a little. “They’re the unknown factor. They could tear me apart. And they started becoming competition for the marriage vows only recently—“  
  
“You can’t say that,” Draco murmured, raising his eyebrows. “They were showing us the images in mirrors for years. And you had the dreams. You said they were like memories. Why else would they have to be, except to provide decent competition for the vows? We didn’t understand them, but there they were.”  
  
“Maybe,” Harry said, but he didn’t look fully convinced. “There’s another way that we can neutralize the life-debts than by giving ourselves to each other, though. We can fulfill them. You can ask favors or promises of me to fulfill the—is it two now? I think so—debts I owe you, and I can think of  _something_  I want that’s not simply you.” He shook his head, as if to say that he would labor to come up with requests he could make of Draco, but he knew it would be hard.   
  
“I see.” Draco hardened his voice. He didn’t quite believe what he said next, but he didn’t understand Harry, either, and he thought it was better to force the issue than to leave it lingering in uncertainty. “So you want to leave me.”  
  
Harry lunged across the distance between them, putting his hand on Draco’s cheek. Almost immediately he grimaced and drew back again, and Draco could feel the resulting itch of his own marriage vows, which said that he couldn’t bring a lover who wasn’t his wife under the Manor’s roof. But the violent, uncontrolled movement had helped reassure Draco, as did Harry’s next words.  
  
“Never,” Harry said, his voice cool and deep, his eyes fixed on Draco’s with a brightness that belied the weariness Draco knew he felt. “I chose you, and I’ll never go back on that. What you said about considering my children’s feelings but not letting them dictate the course of my life made  _sense_  to me. I would become a lesser father to them if I were like that. And I want to be your lover, even if we can only do it in dreams.”  
  
Draco relaxed and looped his arms behind his neck. “Then I don’t understand what you’re saying. Exactly.”  
  
“We’ll still be each other’s,” Harry said. “We just can’t  _give_  ourselves to each other the way that you were saying has been done to fulfill life-debts in the past. That’s all. That’s the only thing that would change.”  
  
“You don’t want to?”  
  
“I want to. But not when it might kill me.” Harry spread his hands. “Do you know what I felt when the marriage vows and the life-debts were tugging on me at the same time, Draco? As if I was literally splitting apart. I could feel it in my bones. They were coming out of the sockets.” He grimaced. “I felt that once when I faced curses from one of the pure-blood supremacist groups the Blood Reparations Department disbanded. It’s—not pleasant. But that convinced me this is real. I won’t die if I can help it. I have more to live for than ever now.”  
  
“And I can think of nothing that I want so much as you,” Draco said softly. “Everything else you could do for me pales to nothing before that.”   
  
“I know,” said Harry. “I’m  _willing_  to neutralize the life-debts that way. I just don’t think it can happen.”  
  
Draco shut his eyes and tried to think rationally, past thoughts of possessiveness that insisted he had to pounce on Harry and prove his claim, now, any way he could. Granger’s words returned to him. Both the life-debts and the marriage vows had to come true, had to exist, and apparently in the ways that they were stated to exist in the literature.  
  
“You won’t die,” he said, his eyes flying open. “The magic needs you alive to fulfill both your obligations—“  
  
“Don’t class yourself with Ginny.”  
  
Smiling, Draco reached out, caught Harry’s palm, and kissed it, a gentle gesture with almost no desire behind it. “But that means it can’t kill you,” he reasoned. “It can hurt you, but it can’t kill you.”  
  
“Then it might do something worse,” Harry said flatly. “We don’t  _know_ , Draco, because this has never happened before. And I’d rather not take the chance that I could be separated from you and the children and my friends and Teddy and everyone else I love.”   
  
He shuddered a little, as though the mention of his godson’s name had reminded him what it was possible Teddy Lupin faced. Draco felt a trickle of remorse. They really _had_  sat up too late talking, and on a night when Harry had suffered a devastating loss and Draco had suffered—a loss he still wasn’t sure had affected him.  
  
“Come to bed,” he whispered.   
  
Harry raised an eyebrow and gestured at the bed beneath him.  
  
Draco squashed his irritation at his lover’s literalness, and said, “Go to sleep. I’ll join you there.”  
  
Harry blinked a little. Since their initial meeting in dreams, they hadn’t tried to make love, and the dreams had responded by filling their minds with more images. “Do you think the debts will let us?” he asked.  
  
“The magic wants us to give ourselves to each other.” Draco slid his hand down Harry’s arm, suddenly starving for the sensations of making love to him. “It’ll help.”  
  
Though Harry didn’t look convinced, he let Draco cast a sleeping charm on him and then arrange his head on the pillow. Draco ran a finger around his chin, then lay down a safe distance away, so his aroused body wouldn’t touch Harry’s here in the real world and activate the marriage vows into pulling them back before it was time.  
  
Then he cast a sleeping charm on himself, concentrated intensely on Harry’s feel and scent and taste, and closed his eyes.  
  
*  
  
Harry opened his eyes in the same featureless room he and Draco had visited before, and spent some moments staring around before he felt his lover’s presence behind him. He turned and reached out eagerly for Draco again. The mere sliding of palms over shoulders, though they had not imagined away the cloth separating them, made him sigh gustily in relief and drop his head so he could kiss Draco’s collarbone.  
  
There was no way that he could give this up, and not simply because of the pleasure he’d experienced when he and Draco came together the last time. He had never had a sense that he was so completely giving and taking at once. He was responsible for someone else’s happiness, but at the same time that other person cared for his own.  
  
If it had ever been like this with Ginny, the time was long past.  
  
Draco tilted his face back up and kissed him until Harry’s head was swimming and his vision blurred and his hips twitched impatiently. Then he drew away and whispered into Harry’s ear, “Will you let me make love to you this time?”  
  
Harry gulped back a moan of eagerness—that would just have embarrassed him—and nodded. He knew the suggestion should probably alarm him more than it did, but. Well. He knew the feeling of Draco’s body sliding against and around and above him, and the feeling of Draco’s cock inside him, from the numerous dreams he’d had over the past ten years. Some of that was probably imagination instead of reality, but now was his chance to find how much might be real.  
  
“Good,” Draco said, and lowered him to the ground. Where Harry had simply asked the floor to turn soft so they could have something to lie on, though, Draco conjured a whole four-poster bed, complete with green curtains and silver pillows in the shape of snakes. Harry laughed, and then let that embarrassing moan out after all as Draco began to unbutton his robes, kissing each patch of skin as it was revealed.  
  
“You thought something was funny?” Draco perched himself above Harry when his robe was open enough to reveal his torso, a faint half-smile on his face.   
  
Harry looked up at him, caught between shaking his head and sticking his tongue out. A clump of Draco’s hair stuck out to the side, mussed and smashed thanks to contact with the bed and Harry. There was tenderness in his eyes that someone like Hermione would never believe  _Draco Malfoy_  could exhibit.  
  
Painful happiness roared through Harry. No, he could not give this up.  
  
“Only how long you’re taking before you make love to me,” he whispered.  
  
Draco uttered a satisfied noise and lowered his head again. This time he parted the robes to Harry’s waist and then licked his navel. Harry arched up. It seemed ridiculous that he couldn’t have been aware of how hard he was before now, but he really hadn’t been. Now that things had changed, he wanted Draco to go further down, to banish his clothes and suck his cock, or at least nuzzle his erection through the cloth and breathe warmly upon it.  
  
“Problems, lover?”   
  
And Draco was grinning up at him, his cheek against Harry’s groin, the clump of hair now stretching away above it. Harry had to swallow twice before he could call up enough moisture into his dry mouth to speak.  
  
“ _Move_ , damn you.”  
  
“Me?” Draco’s eyes widened innocently.  
  
“You can feel exactly what you’re doing to me,” Harry said roughly. “I want—“ And he shivered as the sense memory of one of the dreams came to life, bubbling over and covering him like hot water. “I want you to be as rough as you can without hurting me. I want to  _feel_  what it’s like.”  
  
*  
  
Draco rose when Harry had finished speaking and tore apart the cloth that still concealed his erection and legs. His heart was beating fast, erratically. He was glad for that, because if he had the voice to, he thought he’d be making low, whuffling sounds of excitement. Marian had thought they were amusing the first time she’d heard them. Merlin knew what Harry would think.  
  
Draco  _had_  to have him.  
  
Harry opened his legs to help, and then concentrated on Draco, so that his own clothing vanished. Draco didn’t mind this, since his hands would have shaken quite badly if he were required to strip now. He did bend down and kiss Harry thoroughly, though, since they hadn’t done that long enough and he wanted his partner as dazed and incoherent with desire as he felt right now.  
  
When he pulled back, Harry’s eyes were crazed. He arched his back as if bringing his cock closer to Draco would solve the problem. Draco lifted a finger and slowly dragged it down the length of Harry’s erection, and then further down, so that he could fondle the skin behind Harry’s balls.  
  
Harry whined, and rolled over on his stomach, offering his bare arse to Draco.  
  
Draco tilted his head. He could feel his excitement building, but he wanted to be sure that Harry wouldn’t actually regret this once Draco got inside him and started moving. “You don’t want to do this face-to-face?”  
  
“Did it that way last time,” Harry cried—or it might have been a cry, if there were any voice behind the words. He dropped his head into his arms and lifted his hips; a pillow appeared beneath them immediately, courtesy of the magic of the dream-world. “I want it  _this_  way. I want to see what it’s like.”  
  
“It’s rather different when you’re the one on the bottom,” Draco muttered, but he accepted the arrangements. If this was what Harry wanted, Draco was more than happy to give it to him.  
  
Hell, he was more than happy to give Harry anything he wanted.  
  
That emotion would have alarmed him, except that he knew Harry would give Draco anything he wanted in return. When they were both this interested and this invested in each other, the emotions surged back and forth, the willingness to help feeding on itself, forming an endless circle that Draco didn’t think would become less important or loving as the years went on.  
  
There were difficulties, to be sure—difficulties that had the names Ginny Weasley and marriage vows—but for this moment, they didn’t exist.  
  
Draco imagined the kind of lubrication he wanted, a soft, sweet-smelling oil that would make the experience better for Harry and which he’d used with his own first male lover, and then gripped Harry’s arse-cheeks and began to part them.  
  
*  
  
Harry was gasping and shivering, but inside, he was calm.  
  
Well.  _Mostly_  calm, anyway.  
  
Draco had done this before. He didn’t want to hurt Harry. He wanted to do what he could to help, and he was doing it now, easing one finger inside Harry and then stroking his back, as if he were soothing a frightened horse. Harry did his best to relax around the finger.  
  
He hadn’t thought it would feel so  _large_.  
  
On the other hand, he’d done this to Draco, and Draco had been fine afterwards, hadn’t he? Of course he wouldn’t carry any pain into the physical world, since this was a dream, but he surely would have whinged if he’d felt it. And Harry was confident that his tolerance for pain was greater than Draco’s.  
  
Thinking of the expression his lover probably wore instead of the finger, Harry persuaded his muscles to relax one by one. The finger slid deeper, and Draco grumbled and twisted it. Looking for the prostate, Harry thought, which his dreams had certainly told him about even if he had never—  
  
And then,  _there_  it was.  
  
The dreams could inform Harry about it all they liked, but it was nothing compared to feeling it touched, the sensation like fireworks going off in his abdomen. Harry cried out, his fingers scrabbling into the sheets and his hips moving in some humping movement that he hoped Draco would forget later, instead of teasing him into red-faced humiliation about.  
  
Draco’s hair brushed against his ear as he bent down and whispered, “Sensitive there, Potter?” His breath did some brushing of its own, along Harry’s neck and earlobes, and his shivers increased.  
  
“Lack of confidence getting to you, Malfoy?” he snapped back. “Or maybe it’s just that you’ve never had a fuck like me before.”  
  
Draco laughed and kissed his shoulder blade. “That’s true, at least,” he said.  
  
Harry glared into the circle of his arms, thinking it wasn’t fair that Draco could steal the whole force behind his retort with a few simple words.  
  
And then two fingers were inside him, and he realized he had slightly more to worry about than whether Draco got the upper hand in their contest of words or not. Harry took to deep, quiet breathing, and wished that Draco would touch his prostate again soon.  
  
Draco either could read minds, or simply remembered, from the dreams and his own experiences, what someone in this position would like. He curved and hooked his fingers again, and Harry dropped straight back into a sea of excitement so volatile that he felt as if he would shatter before Draco entered him.  
  
*  
  
Harry, demanding bloke that he was, had started insisting that Draco slide into him long before either of them was ready, but finally Draco’s fingers and the pleading note in Harry’s voice did their work. Draco carefully slicked himself up, and then laid the lubrication to the side, where it spilled in a glittering circle of liquid on the blankets because he’d been too excited to cap it. He made a note to himself to banish the bed before Harry could see and comment on it. He already had too much to tease Draco about.  
  
Then he slid in, carefully.  
  
He’d done this enough times, God knew, and he’d done it to Harry in dreams more often than he could conveniently remember right now. There was no reason for the sensation to wrack him from the feet up and bring tears to his eyes.  
  
He bent down and kissed the curve of Harry’s spine, to give himself time to focus and restrain the desperation that would have driven him to thrust straight ahead with no concern for Harry’s comfort whatsoever. His hands roamed up over Harry’s shoulders and down his sides, slipping in sweat, wringing whimpers from his own throat. And then he drew back, carefully aimed, and thrust ahead.  
  
Harry cried out, a ringing shout that restored Draco’s grin.  _Score one for a Malfoy’s skill and dexterity._  
  
Somehow he lost the moment between his smugness and when he next became aware of his movements, his body strong and surging like a runaway horse’s, his thrusts rough and uncontrolled. And Harry made encouraging sounds under him, now and then flexing his spine and lifting his head as if he thought he could look back and somehow control Draco’s movements.   
  
Of course, from the dreams, Draco  _did_  know that Harry liked it rough when he was in the mood for it. They just hadn’t had much time to test whether what the dreams said was the truth.  
  
 _Shall we?_  
  
Draco braced his hands on the bed and shoved hard enough that he winced a moment later. But Harry groaned in satisfaction, and then muttered, “If you—hadn’t done it—would have—picked myself up and—fucked myself on you in a—minute.”  
  
Draco growled and hurled himself forwards, pushing as hard as he could, pulling back for the minimum amount of time necessary, intent on either getting more words like that out of Harry or rendering him breathless enough that he couldn’t make noises so complicated.  
  
*  
  
Harry now knew something he had suspected was true for ten years, but which he had been able to ignore as long as it seemed the dreams were in no danger of coming true.  
  
He  _loved_  being fucked.  
  
He loved fucking, too, but that was one set of sensations and this was another. This made him squirm in raw need and enjoyable helplessness, not needing to hold himself back and care about his partner’s pleasure before his own. Draco was certainly getting quite a bit of it, if the frenetic kisses and random scratches that covered Harry’s spine were any indication.   
  
Harry was free to be a little selfish.  
  
He reached down and pulled on his own cock, timing his strokes to the strokes Draco made in his arse. He imagined for a moment what they probably looked like from the outside, or what Draco would have seen when Harry was trying to ride his fingers and demanding he move faster than he was ready for—  
  
The orgasm  _stung_  him when it came, the explosion of pleasure like a bite. Harry’s fingers spasmed open, unable to keep their grip, even though he normally would have liked to hold on and wank as he came, to make it last longer. But he  _couldn’t_. His body was motionless around the sheer bliss of the feeling, and then he collapsed and was unable to move, a muffling layer of soft exhaustion protecting him even from the continued thrusts behind him.  
  
Draco came just a few moments after Harry had collapsed, and collapsed across his back. Harry wondered if he should ask him to move off before they fell asleep.   
  
And then Draco turned his head, letting his cheek scrape along Harry’s back, teasing him with the hint of stubble that clung there.  
  
Harry shut his eyes. No. They could stay here. They deserved every bit of enjoyment they could get.  
  
It wasn’t perfect yet. It still wasn’t real, for one thing. But it was theirs, it was shared and entirely mutual enjoyment with the man Harry hadn’t thought he’d ever call partner, and it had lit, once again, the flame of his determination that  _nothing_  could stop this.  
  
No matter what obstacles they had to go through on the road to getting rid of the marriage vows and outwitting the life-debt magic, they were worth it, for this: the warmth and the closeness, the heavy laxity of Harry’s muscles and the soft whistle of Draco’s breath.


	35. Meetings

Harry had just finished easing a combination of milk and mash into Lily’s mouth in the morning—prepared by the house-elves, who seemed to have no problem caring for a baby who still nursed—when Narcissa stepped into the dining room. Draco had already carried Scorpius off for a bath, and to be distant from James, who had thrown fruit at Draco’s son and looked sulky when Harry scolded him. Now James and Al were with the house-elves, playing and possibly being bathed themselves. Harry stood up when he saw Narcissa, absently patting Lily’s back, wondering if something had happened between his boys.  
  
“We have another visitor at the front gates,” Narcissa said quietly. “Ronald Weasley, I believe.”  
  
Relief flooded Harry. Even though Ron might be coming with bad news about Ginny, Harry still felt he’d rather see him than Hermione right now. “I’ll go,” he said. “Would you mind watching Lily for me while I do?”  
  
Narcissa took the baby from his arms without a word, her eyes avid. Harry concealed a small smile. No, Narcissa never minded watching Lily. She might never have a daughter or a granddaughter of her own, but Lily was a good substitute.  
  
 _And I hope she’ll learn to look on Narcissa as a mother, or a grandmother, or an aunt,_  Harry thought, as he walked towards the gates.   
  
He wouldn’t stand in the way if his children didn’t want to forge relationships with the Malfoys. If they all made the decision to go back and live with Ginny the moment they were old enough, he would just have to accept that. But he couldn’t deny that he  _hoped_  they would learn to value Draco and Narcissa and Scorpius.  
  
Not as replacements for Ginny. Not as replacements for him, or each other. But purely and simply because they were themselves, and they were the people Harry would spend the foreseeable future living with.  
  
And he had finally learned it wasn’t selfish to  _hope_  for something.  
  
*  
  
Ron was leaning casually on the wall around the gardens when Harry came up to the gates, but he stood up straight and smiled at once. His eyes widened a bit, though, when Harry lowered the wards and stepped through them onto the white cobblestone path that ran around the wall.  
  
“I didn’t know you could do that, mate,” he said.  
  
Harry blinked at him, wondering what he meant, and then flushed a little as he remembered that Draco had given him partial control over the Malfoy defenses. The gift seemed so natural to him now, given what he and Draco represented to each other, and so many things had happened in the last few days, that he no longer spent much time thinking about it.   
  
“Yeah, well,” he said quietly. “He loves me. Trust comes along with that.” He shrugged, not sure he liked the intent way his best friend’s eyes were studying him.  
  
Ron smiled a moment later, though, and nodded. “That answers my final question,” he said. “I was telling Hermione that you were better off without Ginny, but I wasn’t sure that the best person for you was Malfoy. I see now that it must be.”  
  
Harry coughed, feeling a blush stain his cheeks. He didn’t really want to discuss his love life with Ron. “Is everything all right?” he asked. “Did you find some evidence at the Tonks house that you need to discuss with me?”  
  
Ron’s face darkened at once. “That’s one of the things I came to tell you, mate,” he said. “Dragons came again, last night after we left. They burned the statues of the Inferi and the rest of the house to pieces. If there was any evidence we failed to uncover, it’s gone now.”  
  
Harry hissed, his fingers driving into his palms. He wondered, for an irrational moment, what he had done to the Masked Lady that she would pursue him like this, to the point of making it harder for him to rescue her most innocent victims.  
  
And then he shook his head. He knew the reason. It  _wasn’t_  personal. The Masked Lady wanted the Savior of the Wizarding World incapacitated if she couldn’t kill him, and she knew the best way to do that was to make him fear for the safety of those people closest to him. Harry was a bit surprised he hadn’t received a threatening note after she took Teddy and Andromeda, warning him to back off, but then he realized she probably would have considered a note redundant. The message written in ash and flame should have been bright enough.  
  
“But Hermione did have  _some_  evidence,” he said. “What she found before the Inferi rose, and those ceramic pieces or whatever they were that Draco and I found on the battlefield. Right?”  
  
Ron nodded. “She’s still analyzing them. The whole of the Blood Reparations Department has been pulled in and told to focus on that, over tracking down supremacist groups or making peace with the Muggleborns. Hermione thinks the Masked Lady is the greatest threat to the wizarding world we have right now.” He paused. “And she wanted to know if you would come in, since you  _do_  work for the Blood Reparations Department.”  
  
Harry considered protesting for a moment. But it was true that he’d ignored his obligations to his work recently, and now that the emotional storm of his personal life had partially settled, he should do what he could to make the wizarding world safe for everyone, not just his children and Draco’s family.  
  
“Let me tell them I’m going,” he said.  
  
*  
  
“It would have been nice if I could have finished bathing Scorpius, I admit.”  
  
“Well, but you didn’t have to  _come along_.”  
  
“Of course I did,” Draco said calmly, making sure that he kept pace with Harry as his irritated lover strode along the Ministry corridors. “Did you really think I was about to let you go into a hostile situation alone?”  
  
“It isn’t a hostile situation—“  
  
“Granger hasn’t proven herself enough of a friend where I’m concerned,” Draco said airily, enjoying the way Harry glared at him. It was much better than the tragically noble expression he’d worn when he’d come to Draco and tried to convince him to stay in the Manor while he went out and fought evil. “She carried the letter for that bitch she calls your wife, and she didn’t do  _quite_  enough to interfere between you two last night.”  
  
Harry made a chuffing noise under his breath, as though inaudibly calling all the people in the Ministry to witness what a trial he put up with, listening to Draco, and then reached out and squeezed Draco’s wrist. “I shouldn’t have tried to leave you behind,” he muttered. “Thank you for coming with me.”  
  
“You’re more graceful about admitting the truth now,” Draco said. “That’s a talent I didn’t ever think you’d have.”  
  
Harry turned to face him with a soft laugh, and just held Draco’s face still for a moment, raking his fingers through Draco’s hair and peering into his eyes. Then he leaned forwards and kissed him lightly on his mouth, his nose, and the ends of his hair. Draco held still, enjoying, even more than the attention, the feeling behind it, the sensation that Harry was totally and completely concentrated on him.  
  
“I love you,” Harry whispered.  
  
Someone cleared her throat down the corridor. Harry jumped like a scalded cat, but Draco turned to face Granger slowly, looping one arm around Harry’s shoulders so he wouldn’t get any silly ideas about pulling away. Harry went still and quiet at once, leaning his head on Draco’s shoulder, perhaps so he wouldn’t have to meet his friend’s eyes.  
  
“Yes, Granger?” Draco asked. “Did you have something to say to us? Is showing affection to one’s partner against the mandate of the Blood Reparations Department?”  
  
Granger’s arms folded more tightly as she glared at them. Draco watched her thoughtfully. He was coming to know her as the kind of person who would do what she thought was right, but who wouldn’t necessarily do it with a glad heart. She seemed to accept, now, that Harry really shouldn’t have been married to the Weasley bint. But she would have been happier with just about any new partner for him other than Draco.  
  
“If you will come to my office?” she said in a clipped voice. “I have to tell Harry where the Blood Reparations Department needs him the most at the moment. Malfoy, you can wait outside.”  
  
Harry shook his head. “Draco wants to help, Hermione. And I think he should be able to. You saw how brilliantly he fought the Inferi the other night.” He lifted his head and gave Draco a patently adoring smile, which made Draco feel as if he could charge into battle and curse a dozen enemies at once.  
  
Granger shut her eyes, as much to say that she was giving up on dealing with them, and then nodded curtly. “All right,” she said. She turned her back and began marching up the corridor. Harry followed, but kept himself in contact with Draco at all times, his hands gently fluttering over his shoulders and hair.  
  
Draco smirked at Granger’s back. He knew the woman was stubborn, but he and Harry could be just as stubborn, couldn’t they? Eventually, they would outwait her and she would come to accept his presence in Harry’s life.  
  
 _If only for Harry’s sake._  
  
*  
  
Harry watched as Hermione Levitated one of the glittering white pieces of—something—he and Draco had found on the battlefield onto her desk. It didn’t look any less strange now than it had, though it bore red edges which Harry suspected probably came from the testing Hermione’s people had done to try and discover what it was.  
  
“We had to go through dozens of spells before we finally received a match,” said Hermione. “It was made harder because it had been through the fire, and that had changed its magical properties without destroying it.”  
  
“But you know now,” said Harry, because she wouldn’t have been showing it to him if it was irrelevant to whatever mission she wanted them to perform.  
  
Hermione nodded. “It’s a bit of dragon’s egg shell.”  
  
Harry blinked. “So you think that’s how the Masked Lady has been taming dragons? Stealing them young? Raising them from the egg?”  
  
“Dragons can’t be domesticated no matter what you do,” Draco drawled before Hermione could answer, which Harry knew would irritate Hermione. “The experiment with young dragons has been tried before, and it always results in dead hatchlings or roasted Dragon-Keepers, never anything else.”  
  
“If you’d let me finish before judging, Malfoy?”  
  
Harry stifled a sigh. Hermione’s lip was drawn between her teeth, and her eyes were practically staring out from her skull. She probably hadn’t slept since last night, and was using Pepper-Up Potion to stay awake. That made her less than amenable to Draco’s rudeness. Harry dug a subtle elbow into his lover’s side, telling him to stop it.  
  
Draco grunted, but gave him a small nod a moment later. Message received, at least. Harry faced Hermione again. “The Masked Lady did  _something_  with the eggs and managed to tame the dragons she got from them,” he said. “All right. I accept that. But what does this have to do with my mission?”  
  
“I want to know why the eggshell was there at all,” Hermione said. “After all, it was full-grown dragons that they used to fire the Tonks house, not hatchlings.”  
  
Harry flinched a little. “Yes,” he said quietly. He felt himself standing on the edge of an abyss, but refused to plunge into it, or into despair. He had as yet seen no evidence of what had happened to Teddy and Andromeda. They might be dead; they might as easily be captives of the Masked Lady. “And you want me to investigate what’s left of the house and try to find evidence of that?”  
  
Hermione shook her head, her eyes smug. “There’s something I suspect the Masked Lady doesn’t know about dragon eggshells, no matter what else she knows, because I only recently discovered the spell myself. Dragon eggs tend to pick up characteristics of the most powerful beings around them. It’s a kind of protective coloration, so they can survive if they’re rolled into the nest of another dragon. In this case, I think the eggshell should have been exposed to either the dragon the Masked Lady was riding or to the Masked Lady herself.  _What_  it was doing at the house, I don’t know. Maybe one of the dragons she rides is a mother and just happened to have the bit of shell clinging to her. But you can perform the spell on this—“ she nodded at the bit of shell on her desk “—and use it to track down the most powerful being the shard was last close to. It’s very simple.” She scribbled for a moment on a piece of parchment, and shoved it across the desk to him. “This is the spell that you need to cast on the shard.”  
  
Harry rubbed his forehead. His scar wasn’t aching, but that didn’t matter when his head hurt enough from Hermione’s “simple” concepts. “What?” he said at last. “I don’t understand what you want me to do.”  
  
“She’s putting you on the most direct hunt for Teddy and Andromeda,” Draco said, his sharp, thoughtful eyes on Hermione. Harry was again grateful he’d brought him along. “You should be able to use the shard to create a map that would lead you towards the Masked Lady or one of her dragons—or at least something like a tracking charm. And she’s giving it to you because she knows that you need to be doing something towards their rescue.”  
  
Hermione pursed her lips, but she didn’t speak to contradict Draco.  
  
“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said quietly, and waved his wand to Levitate the shard. He could still see crawling iridescence in it, and, now, feel the heat from it that echoed the dragonfire.  
  
Once again, he had a vision of Teddy and Andromeda suffering and dying horribly in the flames. Once again, he made himself cease to see them. If all he could have was vengeance, he would have that. But he hadn’t yet seen conclusive proof that they’d died when the Masked Lady attacked their home. Until he had that, he would maintain hope.  
  
“I’ll come with you, of course,” Draco said, and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. His voice was oddly challenging. Harry looked at him in surprise a moment until he realized that Draco was looking at Hermione.  
  
“Fine,” Hermione said. Her voice was still clipped. She looked away from them as they rose to leave, as if she couldn’t bear to watch Draco walk out of the room side-by-side with Harry, in the place that should have been Ginny’s.  
  
Harry studied her in silence. Hermione had become a harder person with the Blood Reparations work, but until recently, Harry had always believed that she was still a sincerely good one at heart. She just did what she needed to do to maintain peace in the wizarding world, and if no one else appreciated that, it made her work all the more valuable.  
  
Harry, though, was starting to wonder if she had become  _too_  hard, delved too deeply into the operations of necessity. She had supported Ginny even when she knew what a mess the other woman had become, and said that the marriage vows should hold until she found out Harry had no intention of honoring them. And even now, she seemed determined that he understand the life-debts and marriage vows both had to happen, so the struggle that might pull him apart would continue.  
  
She was so willing to face reality that she might not be able to understand when that reality  _changed_  for someone.  
  
Harry had told himself it was better to work in the Blood Reparations Department than become an Auror. He wasn’t in as much danger, and he could be home with the children more frequently than Ron could be home with his. But now he wondered what his life would have been like if he had become an Auror instead. He would have had a partner, someone to watch his back, someone outside his family who could have understood when this mess began to happen with Draco and Ginny. And he would have been in danger, but not the peculiar and highly personal danger he was in working under Hermione.  
  
 _There are costs to every choice we make—all the choices we didn’t make, for a start._  
  
Draco’s hand on his shoulder pulled him from his reverie. “Harry?” he asked quietly. “We really should be going.”  
  
Harry nodded once to Draco, and let his partner guide him out of the office. If Hermione turned to look at them, he didn’t see it.  
  
*  
  
Harry studied the spell on the parchment carefully, then handed the piece of paper to Draco. “Let me know if I perform the wand movements or pronounce the incantation wrong,” he said, and turned to face the shard of dragon eggshell.  
  
Draco looked from the parchment to Harry as he spoke the words in slow, steady tones. But neither they nor the sharp movements of his wand were wrong. Harry disparaged his own intelligence sometimes compared to Granger’s, but when he  _really_  wanted to do something, it got done.  
  
They were standing as close to the outskirts of the Tonks house and gardens as the lingering heat and Harry’s own discomfort with the place would let them approach. Draco could see the shimmer of the ground when he looked. Granger’s people hadn’t discovered anything noteworthy before the Inferi attacked, or at least they had trouble understanding what they found. But there must have been something important here, mustn’t there? Or the Masked Lady wouldn’t have burned it so thoroughly.  
  
 _She could have done that just to keep Harry on the edge of wondering whether his godson was still alive. I reckon we can’t know.  
  
“—veritas_!”  
  
Draco glanced up sharply as the incantation finished. Harry had encircled the shard with a variety of crosshatched invisible motions, which so far had produced no effect that Draco could see, other than increasing the heavy, thick feeling of magic in the air.  
  
Now all the invisible lines came to life, flaring with intense blue light. Draco watched them turn, drifting above the shard as if they were seeking to suck it within themselves. And then they seemed to find their direction, and settled with an almost audible pulse.  
  
For a few moments more, all that Draco could see was the blue-and-white glow; the shell still shone pearly under all the magic Harry had layered on top of it. Harry fell back from the light, staring at it doubtfully. His hand found its way into Draco’s.  
  
Draco leaned his head down, sniffing quietly at Harry’s hair, and snaked an arm around his waist for extra reassurance.  
  
The net of blue lines rose into the air a moment later, and began revolving. And then, so brightly that they left afterimages on Draco’s retinas, they dissolved, revealing a piece of parchment etched with blue lines instead. Harry gave an exclamation and snatched it, turning it so Draco could see.  
  
It was a map, Draco realized with some disbelief, and in the center was a tiny, broken bit of eggshell swinging about like a compass needle. It ceased its swing a moment later, and pointed steadily to the northeast from the Tonks house.   
  
“How did you  _do_  that?” he demanded.  
  
Harry glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “Well, see, there was this spell,” he started to drawl.  
  
Draco punched him in the shoulder, which made Harry grin at him. “I reckon I should have said, how did  _Granger_  do that?”  
  
“Hermione has patience and an eye for detail that most people don’t.” Harry turned to the map again. “She’ll keep on the track of a useful spell long after others give up and go have their tea. And she’s a genius at figuring out how to adapt spells that were once used for something else so they give good results.”  
  
Draco squeezed the shoulder he’d just punched, on hearing the faint tinge of sadness in his voice. “She’ll be your friend again,” he said. “I think she’s already starting to accept us, but she doesn’t want to admit it.”  
  
Harry glanced at him with an unexpectedly bright smile. “Really?”  
  
Draco nodded. He left out his own discomfort with the idea of having Granger continually around. Like it or not, she was aunt to Harry’s children and had somehow remained one of his best friends. Draco could learn to tolerate her. He’d put up with far worse from Marian over the years.  
  
“Thanks,” Harry murmured, and kissed him. He turned to face the map again. “Now, instead of walking all the distance, which looks as though it’ll take us through several Muggle areas, I suggest we Apparate to the northeast and then check the map again, to see if the needle’s still pointing in that direction or if it’s changed. Agreed?”  
  
Draco nodded. “And if we haven’t discovered anything by the time that evening falls, we return to the Manor.”  
  
Harry started to open his mouth to protest.  
  
“Harry,” Draco interrupted quietly. “She’s carrying them fast as a flying dragon, and I don’t know if we can cover the same amount of distance in one day, especially if we have to go out of our way to avoid Muggle areas. And what happens if she’s removed them from the British Isles to some other country?”  
  
Harry exhaled slowly. “All right,” he whispered. “I know the children and Narcissa need us, too. I just—I  _really_  want to find Teddy.”  
  
Draco ran a gentle hand through Harry’s hair. “I wouldn’t mind seeing them both alive myself,” he said, earning another wan smile from Harry. “But the way to do that isn’t mindless dashing around. The map lasts more than one day, doesn’t it?” When Harry nodded, he finished firmly, “Then we can mark the spot where we finish and return to it. I know the Manor  _should_  protect our children and my mother just fine. But that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable spending days away from them.”  
  
“What happens if we rescue Teddy and Andromeda, and have to flee?” Harry asked. “Will the Manor provide a strong enough protection against the Masked Lady?”  
  
“We have wards against dragonfire,” said Draco. “They haven’t been raised in a long time, but either I’ll tell my mother to do that when we return home tonight, or I’ll Floo her when we know where the Masked Lady is. And yes, Teddy and Andromeda would be more than welcome. They’re both Mother’s blood, and Mother has been an accepted part of the Manor’s defense system for longer than I’ve been alive. I won’t even have to tell the wards to always let them past the way I did for you. If they had to flee ahead while we covered their retreat, they could enter.”  
  
Harry nodded for a moment, his eyes shut. Then he opened them and leaned in, kissing Draco hard. His hands rose and linked together around Draco’s neck. Draco could almost sense Harry gathering up his determination. He didn’t know if they were going to find his godson and Teddy’s grandmother, but they were damn sure going to try.  
  
Draco returned the kiss with interest, and kept his hands on Harry’s back when he pulled away. Harry gave him a harsh smile.  
  
“What are we waiting for, then?” he asked. “Let’s hunt.”


	36. The Second Betrayal

Harry cursed softly when he glanced at the map and saw the shard of dragon’s eggshell pointing south. Most of the time, it pointed northeast, but he and Draco consistently Apparated too far in that direction to avoid Muggle areas, and then had to turn and go cautiously back south and west.  
  
Draco leaned heavily on his arm for a moment. Harry glanced at him, realized from the twisting of his lover’s lips that he was feeling much the same frustration as Harry was, and blew out his breath, forcing himself to relax.  
  
He wasn’t alone. There was that to be grateful for, no matter what else happened. And just because they hadn’t found Teddy and Andromeda yet didn’t mean they would never find them.  
  
He faced the south and took Draco’s arm. They were Apparating each other every other jump, which would allow one person to concentrate on the magic whilst the other watched for danger.  
  
“We’ll find them, Harry,” Draco said.  
  
He spoke mildly, and with no particular belief of his own. Harry found the words comforting anyway. He let his hand holding the map brush briefly over the side of Draco’s face.  
  
“Eventually, yes,” he said, and then focused on getting safely back to the south and west without Apparating straight into the middle of the small Muggle town that sat between them and the area they’d come from.  
  
*  
  
Draco had spent most of the quest, whenever he didn’t need to concentrate on their location or on reassuring Harry, worrying himself with the mystery of why the Masked Lady might have burned the Tonks house a second time. She might have been aware that they could discover something. But what? What could have survived the first blast of dragonfire, not been significant enough to attract the attention of Granger’s people, and then been destroyed in the second inferno?  
  
 _Maybe the eggshells? She could have realized that a shard could be used to track her, and wanted to avoid giving us the opportunity._  
  
Which would mean that she knew they were coming.  
  
Draco grimaced and tightened his grip on his wand, then had to picture the small copse of trees they’d just come from to Apparate safely. Once there, he paced in a small circle as Harry checked the map, worry racing through his mind like wildfire.  
  
 _If we arrive and she goes after Harry first—she must hate him more, since I was just the focus of one plan and she seemed to think Marian could handle me—what should I do? How should I protect him?_  
  
He couldn’t answer the question yet, because he had no idea what kind of traps the Masked Lady might have laid. And all his concern was based on speculation. The eggshell might lead them nowhere. It might guide them to a house where Draco’s aunt and cousin had been, but weren’t now. Or he might find that the Dark curses he already knew were perfectly able to guard Harry.  
  
He hadn’t ever had to worry about this kind of thing before. Scorpius was so young that his stay inside the Manor’s wards was more or less guaranteed. He knew well enough that his mother could protect herself. And he hadn’t cared for Marian enough to make an extra effort, even if they had braved this kind of danger together.  
  
Harry’s fingers tangled with his and squeezed.  
  
Draco caught his breath and met his lover’s gaze. Harry’s eyes were tender, his face utterly open, in that way Draco thought Gryffindors must learn at birth. He cupped Draco’s chin, the touch sending sparks through Draco for a moment. He reckoned that Harry must have felt no desire, though—just as he hadn’t when he gave Draco the earlier kisses—but only tenderness and the desire to reassure. Otherwise, his marriage vows would have sprung to life.  
  
“I won’t die on you,” Harry said calmly. “That’s a promise.”  
  
“The kind of promise you can’t keep, and which you’re only giving to make me feel better,” Draco snapped.  
  
“And don’t you want to feel better?” Harry laughed at him gently, his eyes half-open, and stroked the side of Draco’s neck before he lifted the map. “No point in panicking before the battle arrives.”  
  
“We must be dysfunctional,” Draco muttered, even as he took Harry’s arm for a longer jump. Evening was drawing on, and Harry was becoming impatient with their slow pace. Hell, so was Draco. “When I become worried, you’re stronger and calmer, and vice versa.”  
  
“What’s dysfunctional about a balance?” Harry tilted his head to the side and gave Draco that incomprehensibly mature and wise look he’d had in the earliest days of their partnership, before desire and life-debts and marriage vows had become such a concern to them. It reminded Draco that friendship had developed between them first, and it was the best friend who spoke now. “We’ve proven we’re balanced during two battles already. We can do it again. I  _promise_ , Draco, I won’t let you go into this alone, or come out of it alone either.”  
  
Draco ruminated on that for a moment, chewing his lip harder than he liked, and then nodded.   
  
If he let himself lean a little more heavily on Harry’s shoulder than normal just before they Apparated—well, there was no one to  _notice_. Except himself, practiced in Malfoy secrecy, and Harry, who would never make fun of him for being a little weak.  
  
*  
  
Harry tried to restrain a snarl of triumph as they arrived on the edge of a long stretch of moor. It was difficult, though. The shard of shell now pointed straight north, instead of northeast, and the country ahead of them shimmered under a veil of magic that told Harry no Muggles had lived here for a long time. He and Draco could Apparate in a line forwards for as far as they could see.  
  
That meant they were nearer to their enemies, of course. But that was comforting rather than otherwise.  
  
Harry tightened his grip on his wand.  _If Teddy has suffered, if Andromeda has suffered, I will repay their suffering threefold. At_  least.  _The Masked Lady had no idea what she was doing when she took them. She only saw me enraged once. I—_  
  
Draco’s hand fell on his shoulder and squeezed in warning. “Remember what happened when you attacked her without looking out for her dragon’s tail first?” he whispered. “Interesting as the life-debts are to accumulate, I don’t fancy having you take such a mad risk again in order to secure our eleventh.”  
  
Harry took several deep breaths and then nodded. The Masked Lady had only seen him enraged once because bad things happened when he let his rage control his actions. He clasped Draco’s hand so tightly the other man winced, and then took his arm to Apparate them across the moor.  
  
Draco sneezed when they landed near a brackish pond surrounded by clumps of heather. Harry eyed him. “Allergic to something?” Perhaps this was the first sign of a trap the Masked Lady had set up. Harry wouldn’t put it past her to have a garden of poisonous flowers that killed by scent.  
  
“Not allergic,” Draco said. “ _Sensitive_. Someone used powerful Dark magic here, and not long ago.”  
  
Harry felt his palms tingle. He scanned the area of the pond quickly, but couldn’t see anything.  
  
At least, not anything at  _first_. A second scan, conducted this time with the patience that his Blood Reparations work had taught him, revealed a blackened patch on the pond’s far bank. Harry loped around the water, with Draco covering his flanks and darting cautious looks behind them and to the sides.  
  
Harry knelt down, using magic to bend back the plants and clumpy soil where they wouldn’t give to his hands. He uncovered a patch of ground that still shimmered with heat, rather like the earth around the Tonks house. Holding a palm flat above it, he could feel his skin warm. He shook his head grimly and waved his wand, mouthing a silent incantation. The bank shivered and then rose into a small whirlwind, so that Harry could study the individual grains of dirt without touching them and burning himself.  
  
If a flare of dragonfire had escaped here, it had been extremely small, and easy to conceal afterwards. Harry wondered if he should be worried about that or not.   
  
 _Was it big enough to annihilate a ten-year-old boy where he stood?  
  
“That’s_ what the Dark magic is,” Draco said, so suddenly that Harry jumped. “It’s meant to contain magical fire.”  
  
Harry tilted his head up to frown at him. “And a spell like that is Dark?”  
  
Draco’s eyes glinted for a moment. “No one ever said the Ministry was consistent. Or intelligent, for that matter, your friend Granger notwithstanding. But in this case, the power of Honeycomb’s Wall—that’s the spell—is great enough to stop  _anything_. Dragonfire, rain, a falling star. The Ministry didn’t want it taught, in case their enemies got ideas about stopping charging Aurors.”  
  
Harry snorted. “That makes sense.” He studied the patch of dirt again. “But why conceal it?”  
  
“Several reasons, I think.” Draco knelt down beside him, expertly swishing his robes about to avoid dropping them in the pond or letting them drag in mud. “Whoever this is may simply not want someone else to know she used Dark magic. Or she might have lost control of her dragon briefly. I imagine revealing that to her followers wouldn’t make them very happy.” He met Harry’s eyes. “Or she might have used this to distract attention from something else. A grave, perhaps.”  
  
*  
  
Draco hated saying it, given the stricken look that immediately appeared on Harry’s face, but he found himself all too able to imagine Teddy Lupin buried here, in this lonely ground with too much sky and too much barren emptiness. And it motivated Harry to begin scooping out a hole next to the pond, giving him yet another distraction from vengeance.  
  
Draco moved away, quartering the area as Harry dug feverishly, casting detection spells that would alert him to the presence of bones, other humans, or cooked flesh. The more powerful of the incantations could tell him whether those things had  _existed_  on this spot in the past twenty-four hours, even if they had since been slagged to nothing more than glass and melted stone.  
  
There had been a single human here—female, the spell said. She had remained long enough to create a slight impression that Draco could call up. It rose, cloudy and violent as an afterimage produced from staring at the sun too long, and formed into the silhouette of a woman with a long, cowled robe. She was leaning on something that the spell didn’t render visible, but Draco would have been willing to wager the Manor that it was a dragon. Her cowl faced south, and she had stood there for perhaps half-an-hour before she lifted abruptly from the ground and the spell lost track of her.  
  
Draco called quietly. Harry surged up out of the hole he’d created and trotted towards him. And Draco received yet another confirmation that he was in love, because, even manky with water and thick, clinging mud, Harry still looked good to him.  
  
“What?” Harry asked.   
  
Draco repeated the spell, and let Harry gaze as long as the magic would permit at the female figure. By the time she went out like a spent firework, his lover’s mouth was set and grim.  
  
“I don’t like the way she  _waited_ ,” he said, when Draco asked what was wrong. “Almost as though she expected to be followed.”  
  
“That would suggest that she knew she could be tracked by the eggshell,” Draco completed quietly. “And that we’re walking into a trap.”  
  
Harry nodded, and pulled the parchment from his robe pocket. The shard still pointed steadily north. “But we’re not there yet. And what other choice do we have than to go on, really?”  
  
Draco shot a glance at the sky without saying anything. The sun had already vanished, and thick banks of cloud backlit by orange and red were creeping across the horizon. Draco could feel the wind picking up. He wondered idly if there would be a storm. He would prefer to be back in the Manor if it came, and listen to the rain pounding on the walls and gates—and beyond the wards.  
  
“I know that I said I would go back when it got dark,” Harry began, and his voice was mulish. Draco could imagine the expression he wore without looking at him. “But—Draco, we could be only an hour or so away from Teddy and Andromeda. Or even just ten minutes.”  
  
“We could,” Draco agreed softly, turning around to take Harry’s hands into his own. “But we could also be ten minutes from a battle to get them back, which will take place mostly in the darkness. Possibly against dragons. And if the Masked Lady is holding them captive in a house, she’s had all the time in the world to fortify that with wards and other defensive spells. You know that we can’t count on rescuing them tonight, not even if we find them.”  
  
Harry tugged to get his hands free, but Draco didn’t feel like letting them go. He stared at Harry steadily instead, wanting to get it through that thick Gryffindor skull that there was  _still_  danger for someone who was heroically determined to rescue someone else. And if Harry didn’t care that much about his own life, he needed to remember Draco’s, and the lives of their children, and Narcissa, and his friends, and all the other people who would be devastated to lose him. And he ought to remember, too, that risking his neck in a stupid bid for rescue would prevent him from doing a good job of it later, if only by warning the Masked Lady that he was there.  
  
Draco didn’t want to speak the words aloud; Harry was likely to argue against them and convince himself to go into a trap that way. Instead, he just stood there, readjusting his hold on Harry’s fingers and wrists as necessary, and let the truth seep through his lover’s brain.  
  
Harry scowled at him. He scowled at his feet. He scowled at the sky. He scowled at the ground he’d torn up on the off chance that it might be Teddy Lupin’s grave, and under which he’d found nothing. He glared hardest of all at the patch of heather that Draco’s spell had showed the Masked Lady standing on, as if, by hurting the ghost, he could also hurt the real woman.  
  
Finally, he said, “We search. For ten more minutes. And no  _matter_  what we find, I promise I will go home at the end of it.”  
  
Draco nodded and let his fingers brush the back of Harry’s hands gently as he withdrew them. “Thank you.”  
  
*  
  
Five minutes later, the shard of eggshell in the middle of the map began to spin randomly around and then cracked into pieces, and they came upon the dragon’s corpse.  
  
A mature Hungarian Horntail, she lay like a wall across their path, her neck stretched out to its full length, her tail curled around her belly as though she’d been trying to shield it from attacks in her last moments. Some of her scales still smoked. When Harry walked around her head to check on her eyes and make  _sure_  she was dead, he saw them staring ahead with what seemed like a terrible expression of surprise.   
  
 _Someone she trusted turned on her_ , he thought, and then scolded himself for being ridiculous. He didn’t know if dragons had emotions like humans.  
  
But it did seem that this dragon had been taken by surprise, since she hadn’t made more than a token effort to defend herself. Her jaws were slightly parted, but the ground around her wasn’t scorched with the marks of fire. Harry could find only one trough in the heather that her tail might have plowed, and that seemed likely to have been created as she fell. Her scales had been cracked like dry ground by the impact of some spell that Harry didn’t know and Draco couldn’t identify.  
  
With the shattering of the eggshell, though, Harry knew they had reached their goal. The powerful creature this shard of shell had let them track was the dragon herself.  
  
And now she lay dead, and there was no sign of the woman who had ridden her.  
  
Harry tested the edges of his promise to Draco by stubbornly searching around the dragon’s corpse for longer than ten minutes, flipping over random divots of earth, casting various detection spells, and now and then staring at the scales as if the dragon would soundlessly communicate to him how she had died. Draco did much the same thing, but spent more time watching the edges of the moor visible from their position—the dragon lay on what had been a small hummock—narrowly. And finally he came up beside Harry and stood there in silence, waiting to be acknowledged.  
  
“I know,” Harry whispered. “But I really thought we would find something. Why bring us here?”  
  
“Because she knew she was being tracked,” Draco said gently. Harry wished he had the ability to fight against that gentleness. Instead, it seemed to drain his strength and bring him back around to common sense, no matter how he struggled not to get there. “She was willing to kill her own dragon to escape from us.”  
  
“It still doesn’t make sense,” Harry insisted. “Fully-trained dragons like this have to be valuable. Why did she  _kill_  it?”  
  
“That, I can’t answer.” Draco’s hand was warm in the middle of his back. “But I’ve already cast the spells that I used near the pond, and I can confirm for you that neither Teddy nor Andromeda died here.”  
  
“She might have given them to someone else,” Harry muttered. “Perhaps they were taken in the opposite direction by one of her minions.” He closed his eyes and barely prevented himself from leaning on the dragon’s crooked leg as immense weariness overcame him. “There’s no way to tell.”  
  
“No, there isn’t.”  
  
Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Yes, he could struggle and shout, but that wouldn’t do any good. He knew as well as Draco did that there was nothing more for them to do here. Perhaps Hermione and the Blood Reparations experts she had working under her—experts in Potions and defensive magic—would be better able to search the area and find something of use. Harry would send his Patronus to her before they left the moor and tell her what they’d found.  
  
 _The Masked Lady knew she was being tracked. She probably didn’t plan on it, but she realized later what could have happened, and she was willing to sacrifice one of her dragons to keep us from closing in.  
  
What else has she done that we don’t know about?_  
  
Harry shook his head as he focused on the memory of Draco making love to him in the dream-world and conjured the stag Patronus to fly to Hermione. For now, it was better to return home and comfort his children.  
  
He  _would_  find Teddy. He wouldn’t give up the search until he had proof of his godson’s death or he’d held Teddy safely in his arms. That kind of certainty would have to be enough for now.  
  
*  
  
Draco sighed as he walked into the entrance hall of the Manor. He knew it was probably an illusory safety, but he could relax much more easily when he was behind the shimmering wards that cloaked the walls and gates of his home. He took off his cloak and whistled for a house-elf. He wanted his clothes taken away, a bath drawn, and a sight of Scorpius before he scrubbed himself free of sweat and mud and the other unfortunate things he’d picked up on the moor.  
  
No house-elf appeared. Instead, a witch clad in dark robes and wearing a mask covered with black-and-purple abstract designs stepped through the far door into the entrance hall. She was carrying a wand of dark wood openly in her right hand.  
  
The left arm cradled Harry’s son Al, and the wand made a harsh dimple in the flesh of his throat. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks, and even though his eyes widened when he saw his father, he didn’t cry out.  
  
Harry stumbled a step forwards, and then stopped, his hands clenching into fists. Draco could hear him panting, small sounds of intense misery. He shut his eyes, and opened them again. His body was so tense that Draco knew he would explode into motion immediately if given the chance.  
  
If he could only be sure that any sudden motion he made wouldn’t cause the Masked Lady to harm his son.  
  
Draco himself stood utterly still, his eyes on the woman’s face, searching for some identifying marker. He couldn’t find it. The mask was broad and flat, reaching out to the corners of her jaw and cheeks, even curling around her ears. Her hands were gloved, and her sleeves were long and almost overlapped the gloves. Draco would have taken that as a weakness, a sign that they might get in her way when she tried to move her wand quickly, but he knew better than to suspect  _this_  enemy wouldn’t have seen and taken care of such an obvious flaw. If she didn’t have shorter sleeves, it was because she didn’t need to.  
  
He was much more interested in knowing how she had got past the wards, who was here with her, and what harm they had already done to the children and his mother.  
  
The witch gave a small nod when they both remained still. “So you  _have_  learned something since our first battle,” she said, in a voice as deep as a man’s. A voice distortion charm, Draco suspected almost immediately. “Good. That means you’re likely to listen to me when I tell you how things will be.  
  
“I do not intend to harm any of your children if you cooperate with me.” She flicked a glance at Draco. “You ought to be particularly pleased with the treatment of your son, Mr. Malfoy. His mother is looking after him.”  
  
Draco concentrated on making the breath he drew in and then exhaled flow smoothly, so that it wouldn’t seem to stutter, and so that the motion would express nothing of his intense anger with Marian. Was she how they had passed the wards? Probably. Draco had been sure he had sealed the house against her, but then again, he’d already had proof that she knew more about him than he had realized, and that she was more than willing to pass that information on to his enemies.  
  
“You will be separated, and your wands taken,” said the Masked Lady casually. Several people appeared behind her as she spoke, clad in the dark robes and emerald-green masks of the Salazar’s Snakes. “I am sure you can understand why I’m doing  _that_. And what happens after that? Why, it depends on your good behavior, of course.”  
  
Draco had the time to exchange a single glance with Harry. The mingled despair and rage in Harry’s eyes told him that his partner had no plans for now, and no means to avoid the net that had closed in around them.  
  
He let the Salazar’s Snakes take his wand. He let them search him for further weapons. He let them draw him away from Harry and down one of the corridors that led off the entrance hall, further into the Manor.  
  
He wasn’t particularly surprised when they led him towards the cellars.  
  
Draco closed his eyes for a moment. He knew they would lock him into a small dark place, alone this time.  
  
For the moment, his first and foremost duty was to see how well he had learned the lessons Harry had tried to teach him about how to survive that.  
  
*  
  
Harry remained still, hating. He hated the Masked Lady at that moment more than he had ever hated Voldemort, he thought. Sirius and Cedric and the other people Voldemort had killed were years dead, but this woman was in front of him right now, and she was  _threatening his children_.  
  
The Masked Lady clucked her tongue. Another guard appeared and took Al from her. Since that man’s wand was immediately trained on his son, Harry didn’t move. His wand had been taken from him, anyway.  
  
He did catch Al’s eye and try to give him a reassuring smile. Al blinked and gulped. His tears continued to fall, utterly silent.  
  
The guard took Al out of the room. The Masked Lady stood there, watching him. Harry wondered idly when she would begin the physical torture. He was already in a great deal of pain.  
  
The Masked Lady sighed. Then she said, “Perhaps it is silly, but I have done many silly things in my life. And I  _do_  feel I owe you an explanation. You have always been an exception to my general way of dealing with people. You can be an exception one more time.”  
  
She tapped her throat with her wand, presumably ending the voice distortion charm, and then revealed her face, shaking back her hair as it caught on the edges of the mask.  
  
Harry felt a sharp, sudden, blinding white flash of pain, as though he had just broken a bone.  
  
He was looking into the face of Andromeda Black Tonks.


	37. Explanations

“I suppose,” said Andromeda, with a tone in her voice that Harry couldn’t understand, “you are wondering why I chose to do this. And because you are still special to me—though if I were truly committed to my principles, you should not be—I will tell you.”  
  
Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t think he  _could_. He hadn’t stopped shuddering since Andromeda uncovered her face. It wasn’t cold that made him do so, and it wasn’t sorrow or fear or anger. It was a numbness beyond all of those emotions, which made him feel as though his heart had been launched into deep space.  
  
“You remember the last war, I assume?” Andromeda laid her mask carefully on the floor and aimed her wand at the doorways in front of and behind her, casting spells to make sure that no one could intrude. Harry thought, distantly, that she should have done that in the first place, but he could hardly open his mouth and tell her so. “Of course you do. I am certain that your memories are at least as clear and painful as my own.  
  
“I did almost nothing. I remained behind, out of danger, and survived when my husband died. Then I stayed with my grandson instead of entering the battle alongside my son-in-law and—my daughter.”  
  
The last words were whispered. Harry stared into that calm, nearly motionless face, and thought he was at last beginning to understand.  
  
“And that was a good thing, and that was a necessary thing, because if I hadn’t stayed with Teddy, who would have?” Andromeda shook her head. “But the more I told myself that, the more I confronted myself with the fact that Nymphadora died fighting my sister and I survived, the more I realized it had not been the good or necessary thing  _for me_. I should have been there when she fell. I should have done anything I could to prevent her from falling. I should have taken vengeance on her murderer, and not left her to Molly Weasley’s tender justice.  
  
“And I knew that I would never have that. Not with Bellatrix dead, not with Nymphadora dead.  
  
“But facts don’t curb a desire, do you realize that?” She turned to Harry, her head cocked like a great bird’s. “I’m sure that you didn’t cease to miss your parents, once you _knew_  they were dead, just because you also knew they weren’t coming back.”  
  
Harry finally found his tongue. His mind was on the dimple that Andromeda’s wand had made in Al’s neck, on the fact that Draco was suffering alone in a dark cell by now, on the fates of his children and Narcissa and Teddy. “ _Never_  dare to compare me to you,” he whispered. “I have not done what you did. I have fought all my life against the kinds of things you did. I—“  
  
Andromeda flicked her wand. Harry felt the impression of a hand slapping his cheek, strong enough to nearly knock him from his feet. He staggered, caught himself, and came back up, spitting blood; his teeth had cut into his lips and the sides of his mouth.  
  
The interruption was good for him. It reminded him of the words he’d spoken to Draco in the box at the Salazar Snakes’ hideout: that he never would have survived captivity around Bellatrix and Voldemort, because he would say the wrong thing at the wrong time and force someone to kill him.  
  
He couldn’t afford that, not now. He  _had_  to remember that other people’s fates rode on his, and indulging his tongue was a luxury. He scowled at the floor when the spell finished, and kept his breathing soft and quiet. Andromeda nevertheless watched him for long moments before she spoke again.  
  
“But we  _are_  similar, Harry. I grew to see that during the years that you helped raise my grandson. Nymphadora and Lupin made a good choice in you. I believe that you would do anything to keep Teddy safe. And I would do anything to ease my grief, to purge myself of this festering wound so I can go on afterwards and be a good grandmother, the way I always should have been.”  
  
Even if Harry had granted himself permission to respond to that, he didn’t think he’d have the words. He stared at the floor some more.  
  
“There was only one way to give myself the bloodshed and the vengeance I needed to ease my grief,” Andromeda murmured. “A war. A war where I could fight anyone and anything. I didn’t care, at that point, about fighting only pure-blood supremacists like my bitch of a sister. After all, the Muggleborn groups hated me just as much, because I was pure-blood and refused to stop existing just to oblige them. I’ve made myself familiar with their hateful rhetoric. It counts for nothing that I married Ted, or that I tolerated Nymphadora’s marriage to a werewolf even if I didn’t like it. They honor only those who were actually, actively fighting against the taking of wands from Muggleborns during the war. Your name is important to them; mine is not.  
  
“With loyalties to neither side, with the people I loved most in the world dead, why  _shouldn’t_  I set them on each other in a war? I don’t care which side wins. I only care that there will be enough killing, finally, to satiate my hunger for vengeance. It will continue and continue and continue, and at the end, if I survive, I will be smaller than I have been, but also quiet. That is the only thing that will burn this—this  _rage_  out.”  
  
“You planned this for ten years?” Harry asked. It was the kind of question Hermione might have asked, and if he survived this or was able to escape, he needed to be able to bring her that kind of information. Hermione commanded the largest group of people in the Ministry right now who would fight against this war. She knew the most about it. Like it or not, she was their general against Andromeda, and if there was any chance that she could know about this, Harry had to play spy.  
  
“Yes.” Andromeda gave him a sympathetic smile. “You don’t really need to blame yourself for not being able to outfight or outwit me. It was inevitable. When you defeated one plan, I could call on another. Already I’ve destabilized the relationships between pure-bloods and Muggleborns again. So the attack on Hogwarts will not start the war, but another conflagration will, not many days from now. There will be ample evidence to make the biased on either side believe that their opposite numbers began the attack. And, of course, it’s the biased I’m trying to convince, not people like your friend Hermione who hold back and watch without judging.”  
  
“Do you want me dead or not?” Harry held his voice steady, though it tried to tremble when he asked the next question. “What about my children?”  
  
“I couldn’t face up to the necessity of your death at first,” Andromeda admitted. “That was why I sent the owl during your trip to Diagon Alley asking the Salazar’s Snakes to capture you, not kill you—“  
  
Harry flinched as he remembered Andromeda’s hasty assurance, when he had asked her to stay with his children, that she could; she only needed to send an owl to a friend who had been expecting her.  
  
“And why I set off the attack in your house that morning I visited with Teddy, at the same time the Manor and Diagon Alley were attacked.” Andromeda gave a little shrug. “I thought that, if you saw the danger to your children first and foremost, you would give up the pursuit of the enemy. There are some things a young hero can face which are too dangerous to a father.”  
  
“It only enraged me.”  
  
“I know that now. I should have known that then.” Andromeda rapped her wand thoughtfully against her palm. “And then when I saw you wounded by my dragon, I fled rather than continue the attack; I needed time to deal with the fact of your death. But you  _survived_. After that, I reconciled myself to the fact that I would have to destroy you.”  
  
“Now?” Harry raised his head, his heart beating very fast, and held her gaze evenly. If he died now, he died now. It was a possibility he had been facing since the start of the war.  
  
“Of course not!” Andromeda exclaimed. “I am not such a monster that I won’t let you have some time with your children, and even your lover if you wish, to say goodbye.” An expression of resigned distaste crossed her face. “I could have wished that you chose any other lover but my nephew. You sadly reinforced the worst in each other. If he hadn’t got you involved—or, I suppose, if my sister hadn’t got you involved—my initial plan would have resulted in his imprisonment, and you and your friend would not have been in the possession of enough information quickly enough to act.”  
  
There was nothing Harry could say to that that wouldn’t make Andromeda respond violently, so he preferred to move on to another subject. “You did not say whether you would spare my children.”  
  
“Yes,” said Andromeda calmly. “They’ll weather out the war here. I never intended to kill my sister. Even Marian’s Blood Hydra, which I taught her how to make, would only have killed Draco and vanished. She’ll have the children to care for, and I think that will sustain her.”  
  
“Where is Teddy?”  
  
“Safe.” Andromeda eyed him askance. “I have given ten years of my life to my grandson. He is the only connection I still have to Nymphadora. I burned my house mainly to give you something else to worry about, and then to cover up the traces of the Inferi, which I’d had buried there for years. Do you think me such a monster I would harm Teddy?”  
  
Harry couldn’t help the flash of his eyes that followed, even though he held his tongue.  
  
“I see,” Andromeda said quietly. “Well.” She lifted her wand. “Your death must, of necessity, be public. I don’t want any awkward rumors that the Savior is still alive and languishing somewhere in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. But there is no reason that I can’t hurt you a bit first. That might also quiet any inconvenient ideas that are forming in my sister’s mind.”  
  
*  
  
They’d chosen a storage closet for him, a room without light unless one carried a wand in, so small that Draco could barely sit upright with his legs crossed beneath him. One of the Salazar’s Snakes flashed his  _Lumos_ -lit wand about to show him the closeness of the walls, and laughed at him when Draco flinched in spite of his resolve not to show any fear to his enemies.  
  
“Enjoy it,” said one of his captors, which made the others laugh again, and then they shut the door and left him in the darkness. Draco had to sit with his knees and elbows held as closely as possible to his chest so he didn’t touch the walls.  
  
It was bigger than the box he’d been kept in at the old manor house, but there, the major difference had been that Harry was with him. Here, he was alone, and if he spoke, he would only hear his voice echo back from the stone. If he cried out, no one would answer. If he reached out for a touch of warm human flesh, there would be nothing but coolness a few inches away—  
  
He calmed his panicking brain, jerked it to a stop like a restive broom, and then deliberately closed his eyes and reached back into his memory.  
  
Harry had said that he didn’t love Draco at the time, but that he liked him. And he didn’t believe Draco was evil; he had only been following orders. And he had been weak, but not a weakling.  
  
A weakling would crumble apart in a situation like this, break into a mumbling, weeping heap, and give his captors everything they wanted. The Salazar’s Snakes had tried to break him like that during his first imprisonment. Without Harry there, he would have become a helpless victim for them and done whatever they commanded.   
  
Was he still like that? Had he changed enough to survive an ordeal like this, even knowing people waited elsewhere in the Manor who were  _depending_  on him to escape it?  
  
He shivered. The walls were pressing against his shoulders, he was certain. They had moved in while his eyes were shut, and now hovered like predatory birds, ready to slam shut any moment and crush him to a smear of blood and flesh—  
  
 _No_! He ripped the thought from his head, crushed it, exiled it, pictured the walls of his own mind smashing it to pieces. If he lost himself in morbid imaginings, then he deserved everything that followed. It was one thing to let his enemies get to him; it was quite another to do their work for them.  
  
Harry had believed he could become strong. He had a son upstairs to whom he was everything in the world, a strong father and his primary caretaker, since Marian hadn’t been allowed to touch him for months. Draco pictured Scorpius struggling and crying in Marian’s arms, not trusting this strange woman who proclaimed herself his mother. And since Marian had sent those letters about the Masked Lady to Granger, proving, too late, that she regretted joining her, would she perhaps snatch Scorpius and try to run again? Perhaps she would, and the Masked Lady would let her go because she didn’t care, and then Draco would never find them again.  
  
He couldn’t bear that. He had to find some way to get out of here, for the sake of Harry and his children and Scorpius and his mother.   
  
His mother. Had the Masked Lady hurt her? Had Narcissa tried to fight when Marian let the Salazar’s Snakes through the wards? She would have, Draco knew, if she perceived the children as being in danger. And of course they would be in danger with Marian’s companions about.  
  
He pictured Narcissa broken and bleeding, and didn’t let the instinctive panic take over. He didn’t need panic at the moment. What he needed was rage.  
  
And it was there, burning bright, if he pictured his son gone to the Hebrides in the arms of his traitorous mother, or his own mother assaulted but still standing up to her enemies with dignity—at least until they took her wand away—or Harry’s children huddling together and trying not to cry, or Harry being tortured.  
  
Now he needed to ensure that the rage continued burning as a flame against the darkness.  
  
Draco opened his eyes.   
  
He made himself see and accept the darkness that hemmed him in, no matter how much his skin crawled. He waited long moments, then reached out and touched the walls, locating them in the exact same space they had been. The flash of them in the light of the  _Lumos_  charm was still clear in his mind. He could use the memory to reassure himself that no, they hadn’t moved.  
  
And now he had to face the memories of Bellatrix, who had hurt him in ways he still flinched from thinking about.  
  
For a moment, a maelstrom of fear tried to pull him back into itself, as had happened in the box with Harry. But although he didn’t have warm arms around him this time, or a warm voice murmuring into his ear, he had the knowledge that such things existed and waited for him just on the other side of this darkness. He took several deep breaths, pulling air in when he would have hyperventilated, demanding that he think of comfort when he would have thought of pain, and tightening his grip around his knees when he would have started lashing out, shaking and crying.  
  
He could ride this. He  _would_  emerge victorious.  
  
Sorrow had tried to break him during the last ten years. Had he let it?  _No_. He might not have done very much until Harry’s sudden arrival woke him from his stupor, but he had put up with the state of things. He had endured an apathy that was worse than this fear, because it dragged on and on with no sign that it would ever end.  
  
Had he let Marian’s betrayal get to him?  _No_. He had blamed himself for trusting her in the first place, but he couldn’t have predicted that, and he was not to blame for her actions. He had done as he had to, and—  
  
Draco jerked his head up, blinking. His chest hurt with the deep breaths he was forcing himself to take. His thoughts had suddenly oriented on the night that Esther Goldstein had died, the night Marian had tried to convince Harry that he was guilty because he had been missing from his room for an hour.  
  
And he  _had_  been missing for an hour. But Marian had never known why, and Draco hadn’t told Harry, either, because it was a family secret.  
  
One he could use now.   
  
Hope joined the rage, and lit a flame that reduced the darkness to shadows. Draco knew the worst moments of panic had passed, and he wouldn’t drop back into them again.  
  
Of course, it would be best if he could convince his captors that he  _was_  broken, so that they would be less wary when they opened the door.  
  
Draco closed his eyes and set himself to creating a convincing simulation of despair. He had to pause several times along the way, though, to keep his lips from wrinkling into a smile.  
  
*  
  
Harry had curled around his stomach. It didn’t help, of course, but it was an instinctive reaction, and he couldn’t convince himself to uncurl.  
  
The spell Andromeda had cast made him feel as though he were being punched in the solar plexus multiple times. Each few punches, the strength of the magic increased, and so did Harry’s lightheadedness and desire to vomit—and his pain. As the spell spread outwards through his body, his muscles tingled and went numb, and now he wasn’t sure he could have stood up to flee even if Andromeda had opened the door on the far side of the room and invited him through.  
  
He tipped his head to the side and let a small stream of bile flow out of his mouth. Then the spell attacked him again, and he moaned and rolled over. He didn’t think he’d got his hair in the bile, but other than that, he had no idea on which patch of the floor he lay, or where Andromeda was.  
  
“Be grateful I’m doing this to you,” Andromeda whispered as she paced around him. “You’ve frustrated me, and I need to take this out somehow. I could have tortured my nephew, or your children. Wouldn’t you rather be suffering, instead of them? Your hero complex says so.”  
  
Harry was almost grateful for the magic, then. It prevented him from saying all the stupid things that he surely would have said otherwise.  
  
She lifted the spell at last, and let him uncurl and lie there, panting. Harry stared in silence at the ceiling of the entrance hall for minutes and minutes before he even tried to get his feet under him.  
  
When he did, he came up to a shaky kneel, and whispered, “I would ask that you leave my children out of this. They were born since the war. They don’t have a part in any pure-blood or Muggleborn supremacist group. They can’t have done anything to cause you grief.”  
  
“I would leave them out if not for their connection to you.” Andromeda sounded weary, as though she had explained this twenty times already. Harry glanced up to see her leaning against the far wall, her wand dangling loose in her hand. “I have told you that. I intend for them to survive the war, and my sister can raise them—or however many she wants. I may be willing to take in one or two. I think she might want your little girl but not your boys, for example.”  
  
Harry shut his eyes. “Give them to their mother.”  
  
“Ginny?” Andromeda sounded amused. “I thought you had left her. You would trust her with your children?”  
  
“She’s still their mother.” Harry wiped his mouth slowly clean, tried to stagger to his feet, and ended up falling down. He shivered, and let the racking spasms travel to the ends of his legs before he tried to speak again. “She still loves them. I would rather see them with someone who loves them than someone who might or might not want to raise them. I would rather see them with anyone than with  _you_.”  
  
Andromeda didn’t take offense. “I can understand that,” she said. “But I plan to be different after the war, I assure you. I will be much calmer, and feel that my daughter truly rests in peace now. I can at last fulfill the role of mother and grandmother that everyone told me I should be so delighted to play, regardless of what children I was playing it to.”  
  
Harry sighed and closed his eyes. He thought she was mad, or as good as. She might still have the capacity to talk and act sane, but that only made her dangerous, not free from insanity.  
  
He jerked his head up abruptly, and then whipped around to face the entrance of the Manor. Andromeda followed his motion, her gaze wary.  
  
Harry pushed himself off the floor using both his feet and the flats of his palms. He still couldn’t run fast, but he was stronger than he had let himself look, and he had got rid of the worst of his weakness. He doubted that he would have a better chance than this, no matter how long he waited.  
  
Once before, ten years ago, he had stolen a wand in this Manor and had it perform well for him. He only hoped that he could do it again.  
  
Andromeda fired a hex at him, but her surprise had slowed her down, and Harry leaped over the spell. The next moment, he crashed into her and bore her backwards, his hands tangling in her sleeves as he struggled for the wand.  
  
*  
  
Draco could hear the laughter when the Salazar’s Snakes opened the door.   
  
“Crumbled just like you said he would, Michael!” someone called.  
  
“You owe me five Galleons, then, Jensen.”  
  
Jensen spat and muttered about his bad luck, whilst at the same time tugging at Draco’s arm, which was clamped around his head as he curled up in a fetal position. “Come on, Malfoy. There’s someone here who wants to see you.”  
  
Draco waited until he’d been turned in the right direction. Then he launched up with a kick that caught Jensen in the groin and crumpled him. His hand opened, his wand went flying—  
  
And Draco snatched it with a Seeker’s instinct. Then he rolled to his feet and Body-Bound Michael. Back he went like a falling tower, bearing down at least two of the other wizards waiting behind him.   
  
Draco leaped over them and ran madly towards the tunnels that twisted past the closet. He didn’t know exactly how far away the familiar part of the Manor was, but once he entered the territory, he would recognize it.  
  
He was going into the Malfoy family crypts, which no one but him knew about, which only he had walked in the ten years since Lucius was imprisoned—  
  
And which were said to contain help for a Malfoy in dire need.


	38. Help for a Malfoy

“You should have learned better than that, Harry.”  
  
Harry said nothing. He concentrated on keeping his breath, his sanity, and his consciousness in the wake of what felt like a dozen minutes of Cruciatus, though he knew it could barely have been two. Twelve minutes would have been sufficient to make him lose his sanity; he knew  _that_  much. An image of Neville’s parents flashed through his mind, and he shuddered.  
  
“Do you understand how foolish you were to challenge me?”  
  
Harry forced his eyes open slowly. Andromeda stood over him, her hand so tight around her wand that Harry was vaguely surprised it didn’t shatter, her face contorted into a snarl. When she saw Harry looking at her wand, she tightened her grip on it again and shook her head. Harry would have smiled if this were even a vaguely appropriate place and time. Did she really think he could Summon her wand with his gaze? Even the little wandless magic he was capable of wouldn’t have been available to him now, with this burning ache lodged in his bones. He couldn’t concentrate enough past the pain and her words to grasp hold of it.  
  
“I don’t think you do,” Andromeda whispered. “I think that you  _still_  believe, even now, even after all this, that you were only doing what you  _had_  to do, as if that excused your actions. I do not think you will appreciate the seriousness of the situation until you see one of your children sobbing in front of you.”  
  
And Harry learned what fear was.  
  
*  
  
Draco skidded around a corner and leaned for just a moment against the stone, panting. He badly needed the chance to catch his breath, but he also needed to run his hand along the traceries carved into the wall and learn which direction he was going.  
  
He nodded sharply. Good. He had not lost the way in his frantic dash. He still knew where he was, and the Masked Lady’s soldiers had not the slightest idea. They kept behind him with annoying persistence, he had to give them that, but that was not enough to protect them.  
  
His legs and his memory together guided him up the polished stone corridor to one that was more rough-hewn, and he hesitated whether to turn right or left. But then his memory took over, and he turned to the left.  
  
And then there was a solid wall, at least to anyone looking at from a distance. One had to be close at hand, and preferably with fingers brushing the wall, to realize that part of it was actually a door, also made of stone and set perfectly flush with the surrounding rock. The Malfoy ancestors hadn’t wanted anyone gaining unauthorized entrance by sticking fingers or a wand around the sides.  
  
Draco laid his palm flat against the door, in the middle of a spiraling design of skulls, and forced his breathing to calm and his mind to concentrate on the names of his ancestors that Lucius had taught him from the time he was old enough to speak.  _Lucius, Abraxas, Julian, Octavius, Quintus, Julius…_  
  
Beneath his hand, the door went soft, as if he were pressing his fingers into bog. Draco forced himself not to leap back. He leaned forwards and accepted what was happening, even as he lost his balance.  
  
Then the suction tightened, and drew him in. Draco heard a hex crackle past his feet and hit the wall. He imagined that his enemies would have no last sight of him, and no explanation, other than the way his body whipped into the wall as if a hungry octopus were pulling at him.  
  
He was within the midst of the stone now. Draco kept his breathing as even and soft as he could, while in his mind the names repeated.  
  
 _Septimus, Lucius, Regulus…_  
  
*  
  
“No,” Harry said softly. “I will give you whatever you want, if only you will not touch them.”  
  
Andromeda didn’t respond. She stood in the entrance of the room where she had confined the children, staring at them. Harry hung behind her, gripped by a spell that dangled him from the collar of his robes like a kitten transported in its mother’s mouth, and couldn’t see the expression on her face.  
  
He could see the sudden hope that overcame James’s boredom, though, and the way that Al reached out for him. Scorpius, sitting on a low chair, looked past Harry and mouthed something that looked like, “Daddy?” Even Lily’s gurgles had turned inquiring.  
  
“Where’s Teddy?” Harry asked, because he thought the question might raise a response from Andromeda.  
  
“With my sister,” Andromeda murmured. “I told you, neither of them has been harmed, and I don’t  _intend_  to harm them, either.” Her voice was distracted, and her left hand rose and wavered back and forth between the children.  
  
It terrified Harry that she could be choosing which one to torture. “Anything,” he repeated. “I will give you whatever you want.”  
  
Andromeda sighed and turned to face him. “As matters fall out, I was going to choose Scorpius,” she said. Harry could see Draco’s son cock his head at the sound of his name. “And why should that matter to you, since he is your lover’s child and none of your blood?”  
  
Harry swallowed. Whatever happened next was probably going to hurt, but so long as he could keep her attention focused on  _him_  and not the children, he counted that as winning a victory.  
  
“You really don’t understand, do you?” He filled his voice with pity, and saw her stiffen at the sound of it.  
  
“You will explain yourself.” Her wand bobbed in a single sharp gesture, and the spell at the nape of Harry’s neck tightened, making it hard to breathe. He coughed twice before he realized it wouldn’t get better, and he should talk to Andromeda while he still had a chance.  
  
“I mean,” he said, “you don’t understand why anyone outside family matters. You kept Teddy safe because he has a blood connection to you, and likewise with Narcissa. And you’re doing this because you want vengeance for your daughter. It never once occurred to you that your war could hurt  _other_  families, did it? That the men and women you kill are also sons and daughters, and that their parents love them as you loved Nymphadora—“  
  
He never saw the spell she cast, but it sliced open his cheek easily. Harry felt the flaps of skin fall back to expose his gums and teeth.  
  
Al screamed as if he had been the one to feel that pain. James whispered, “Daddy? Daddy, what’s she doing?”  
  
Harry didn’t scream. The noise wanted to emerge, but the mere  _thought_  of what the faces of his children would look like if it did prevented him from voicing it. He swallowed several times, then said, “She’s just punishing me, James.” His voice sounded distorted because of his open cheek, but at least he could speak.  
  
“A good answer,” Andromeda whispered, and lifted her wand again.  
  
Another slash laid open his other cheek. And then she began to paint patterns of blood on his stomach, dangerously close to his intestines and several other major organs, leaving him to wonder what would happen when she broke the barrier of the skin. He had seen the pictures of Esther Goldstein’s murder. Even if Andromeda had not been the one to kill and mutilate the girl, he thought she probably knew the spells.  
  
He did not want to die in front of his children. But so long as he could keep her attention fixed on him, he spared them for a few moments, and he would have another chance to come up with a plan that might spare them further.  
  
*  
  
The stone pressed down on him as if it were still liquid rock flowing in the heart of a volcano. Draco found himself shivering convulsively, wondering if he were to be crushed after all, but not by the walls of a closet this time. Lucius had taught him how risky any intrusion into the crypts was. They were the domain of the dead, and though the living might come to them if they were of Malfoy blood, it still wasn’t something to undertake lightly.  
  
But the darkness parted suddenly in a flash of light that reminded Draco uncomfortably of the way Scorpius had been born, and he found himself clambering out of the wall into the middle of a familiar corridor. He leaned against the stone to catch his breath and gaze at the nameplates beneath the niches.  
  
Each niche was no more than a ledge in the stone, just the length of a human body. Each cradled a molded silver or platinum or iron figure—depending on the wishes of the deceased and how much they had achieved in life—representing the Malfoy whose body rested there. Draco discovered he was between the elder Lucius’s stern, staring, hands-folded silver figure and the platinum face of his many-times-great-aunt Julia, who had held the family together when her father had gone to prison and arranged the deaths of its enemies with ruthless efficiency.  
  
He straightened his back. He knew which direction the door was from here. If he wanted, he could stroll through it and emerge in his bedroom, inside the defenses the Masked Lady had set on the upper floors.  
  
But that was not what he wanted. It was too bloodless to be what he wanted.  
  
He laid his fingers on the nameplate beneath Lucius’s figure, and then beneath Julia’s. All the time, he was concentrating on his own name, Draco Malfoy, his degree of descent from both of them, and his dire need.  
  
 _An enemy has kidnapped the heir of our house and my mother. My traitorous wife has come within the wards again. My partner, a man who gave up his own wife and part of his reputation to love and live with me, is a prisoner, and so are his children. They may be tormented even as I think this._  
  
He called up all the images that he had forbidden himself when he was in the closet, the images of Harry writhing in pain and Harry’s children screaming as flesh was shredded from their bones. The need had to be  _dire_  to coax the ancient Malfoys to rise. Lucius had warned him of that a hundred times. A Malfoy child using this for a trick would be consumed along with the people he had tried to “save.”  
  
But this was no trick, and Draco felt his fear nearly choke him as he imagined, again, what the Masked Lady could do, and reminded himself what she was capable of.  
  
He was swallowing bile when the metal beneath his fingers shifted.   
  
Draco opened his eyes with a startled breath, but didn’t jump away. Lucius had also warned him that an unnecessary amount of disturbance during the rising process could send his ancestors back to sleep.  
  
Again he whispered the names of the possible victims and their relationships to him and their necessity to his future happiness. They were  _important_  to him, the heir of the Malfoy family. Would Julia and Lucius and the rest hear and respond?  
  
The shriek of grinding metal lashed around the crypts like a thrown blade. Draco swallowed dryly and fought the temptation to shield his eyes. No stone chips were flying towards his face, though it sounded as if they should have been.  
  
The carved letters beneath his fingers  _stirred_. And then Julia Malfoy’s statue arose, a metal golem, and fixed her eyes on him.   
  
A moment before, they had been the usual carved, staring eyes that the wizard-smith hired to make them set in place for every such mask. Now they studied him, a shade of intense blue that reminded Draco of his mother’s, and blinked and fluttered and  _moved_.  
  
“I have come in answer to your need,” said the rasping voice of his ancestress. No matter what she might be now, she still had a metal throat. “And others will.”  
  
Draco nodded dumbly, hearing the sound of metal scraping across rock behind him. The older Lucius would be standing, he knew, and from further down the crypts, as the call and the need spread, everyone down to his grandfather Abraxas would shrug off the bonds of stillness and come back to life. But the mere fact of its happening had stunned him, and he could only stare right now.  
  
Julia’s lips moved, flowing like molten metal into a pretty smile that Draco knew, from family legend, far too many people had mistaken for a mindless simper when she was alive. “So, nephew. Point us at your enemies.”  
  
*  
  
Harry knew the moment when he couldn’t allow Andromeda to torture him any longer. James started to cry along with Al. His older boy was doing his best to muffle the sobs and make it sound as if he were coughing instead—even at Al’s age, he had been shy about crying for any reason other than anger—but Harry was too familiar with the sounds to be fooled. And then Lily began to wail, set off by the others, and Scorpius, whose face Harry could just see when he was trying to look out of pain-squinted eyes, sniffled.  
  
“Enough, Andromeda,” he whispered.  
  
“It will never be enough,” she whispered back. “Until the seas are full of blood and the ground is covered with bodies. Until I have done all the fighting I could have done at my daughter’s side. Until I feel that I have satisfied my duty as a mother.”  
  
Harry licked his lips, spat out blood, and hoped he had got better at lying in the last few years. Lying to Draco and Ginny was out of the question, but Andromeda didn’t know him nearly as well.   
  
Or she hadn’t seemed to, at least. Here was hoping that her grief had blinded her to what happened when Harry told a lie as well as to the general definition of sanity.  
  
“You never knew what Tonks said to me just before she died?” he asked. “You never knew why she  _wouldn’t_  have approved of your doing this?”  
  
Andromeda’s wand, which had started downwards as if she were going to open a slash across his forehead, abruptly dropped. She stared intently at him. “What do you mean?” she whispered. “I know every moment of that last day of my daughter’s life. I have questioned each of the Weasleys five times. I have tracked down and interviewed everyone else who was in the battle, and the people who saw Bellatrix kill her. There is nothing I do not know.”  
  
Harry winced. Of course, the people Andromeda talked to would have given her any information they had, out of pity for a mother’s grief, never knowing how each fact solidified her madness.  
  
He shook his head. “You didn’t ask me about this, and I didn’t tell you. I probably wouldn’t have remembered, except that you’re making me concentrate harder on my memories of Tonks than I have in years.”  
  
“You never should have forgotten her.” Andromeda’s wand hand twitched like the tail of a stalking cat. Harry watched it narrowly, but it didn’t begin the gestures of a spell, and that was good enough for him. Every moment that went by with both his children and him spared pain, so that they could live and he could  _think_ , meant—  
  
Meant what? Did he expect Draco to come charging in and rescue him? That would be silly. But he refused to question the steady hope welling up in him. He would have to pursue his lie.   
  
“I never should have,” he agreed, in the most soothing tone he could muster. “After all, if I could remember the life-debts I owed the Malfoys and give  _them_  a second chance, why couldn’t I call up the memory of Tonks and make her live for me?”  
  
Andromeda nodded. “You were about to tell me what she said to you.”  
  
“It wasn’t long after she and Remus had come through from your house, and the battle began,” Harry improvised. He made himself recall the sights and scents and sounds of the Battle of Hogwarts in all their detail, which wasn’t something that happened often outside his nightmares. If he could cast himself into the right mindset, his lie would be that much stronger. He’d learned that from the times he fudged the truth around Hermione. “We were isolated together in a seventh floor corridor while the Death Eaters attacked from below and Voldemort declaimed. She looked straight at me and smiled a little. ‘I’m so happy that I lived long enough to marry Remus and have Teddy,’ she said.”  
  
“Yes,” Andromeda murmured, watching him raptly. “That was like Dora. To think of others before herself. My sisters, who condemned her because of her father, never knew what a chance they missed for knowing a good, generous, kind woman.”  
  
Harry smiled back. “I asked her—because it frustrated me, I have to admit—why she and Remus had come into the battle. I was thinking of what would happen if they both died and Teddy was orphaned.” He swallowed, because that part was true. “I lost both my parents to a war against Voldemort. I didn’t want the same thing to happen to my godson.”  
  
“She had to,” Andromeda whispered. “I tried to get her to stay at home, and she wouldn’t. She insisted that her place was in the front lines, beside her husband. And how she suffered for it! How they both suffered.”   
  
“So I asked her that question,” Harry said doggedly. He didn’t think it would be the best thing, right now, to allow Andromeda to sink into grief. She might come out of it snapping like a maddened dog at everyone around her. At the very least, Harry would no longer be able to predict her actions. “She was silent for a bit. Then she said, ‘I’m a trained Auror, Harry. I have to do my job, don’t I?’  
  
“But I didn’t think that was everything, and I pressed her a little more. She gave this little wrinkle of her nose that she made when she was irritated—“  
  
“Dora to the life,” Andromeda said, almost too softly for Harry to hear.  
  
“—And turned her hair red as blood. ‘That’s not the whole reason, no,’ she said. ‘I came because I love Remus and have to fight beside him. And besides, I know that Teddy will be in good hands if I die. My mother loves and values life. She cares so much about family, Harry. You should know her better.’  
  
“That’s one of the reasons that I visited so often after the war, and tried to get to know you better.  _You_ , Andromeda, not just Teddy. I wanted to know about the woman who had the strength to raise one child, and send her off to war because that was where she needed to be, and then had the strength to start all over again with her grandson. And Teddy’s a good kid. You raised him well.”  
  
Andromeda shut her eyes. Tears were streaking her face, rolling down so slowly that they reminded Harry of the tears Al had cried when the wand was pressed against his neck. But he couldn’t look at his son right now, even though he had a strong urge to know how Al was faring. He would break.  
  
“I didn’t have the strength,” Andromeda said. “Not really. She just thought I did. She had never seen what would happen to me when she was on a particularly dangerous mission. How could I tell her? She was so proud of being an Auror and a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and she wanted me to be proud of her, too.”  
  
“But you  _do_  have the strength.” Harry held his voice to a murmur, and didn’t reach out to touch her, even though his hands were free of the gripping spell and he could have. “You showed your daughter that you did. You showed your grandson that you did. You showed me that you did. Just because you  _also_  planned the war doesn’t mean that everything you showed us all was a lie. It was  _also_  true, at the same time.”  
  
Andromeda took a few steps towards him, her mouth slightly open. Harry had no idea what she was going to say or do next. He had no idea what he must look like at the moment. He could only hold her eyes and hope that his words had been enough.  
  
Andromeda paused in front of him, still staring, and then leaned towards his ear.   
  
“If you had told me that a year, or two years, or five years ago,” she whispered, “it might have been enough to stop me. Now, it is far too little, far too late. How does it feel, Harry, to know that you  _could_  have spared the wizarding world a second war, if you had paid a little more attention to the grief of people around you?”  
  
Harry shut his eyes. He should not have expected the lies to take her in, even if they had fascinated her for a few moments. She was simply too invested in her own plots and plans.  
  
But he had no intention of giving up, either. The spell holding him suspended his legs a good distance off the ground—perhaps high enough up that he could kick her hard in the breasts. He began to gather his strength to try it.  
  
Andromeda turned away from him before he could. Harry opened his eyes, in a panic, to see her aiming her wand at Al.  
  
“ _No_!” Harry screamed.  
  
“ _Cru_ —“ Andromeda began.  
  
And then something else provided the interruption that Harry could not, as a crash of falling stone echoed from further back in the Manor. Andromeda spun around, her eyes wide and her head cocked in a listening posture.  
  
 _I hope to God that’s Draco_ , Harry thought, and then provided  _his_  distraction, swinging himself up and kicking Andromeda in the side as hard as he could.  
  
*  
  
Draco had thought his ancestors would show more respect for the Manor that had been home to so many of them. He had envisioned secret passages, ones that even Lucius had never been trusted with, leading from the crypts to the surface.  
  
Instead, Julia simply reared back and punched a hole in the wall at the end of the tunnel that led down from Draco’s bedroom with one metal fist. It groaned, wavered, and fell, and Draco heard startled shouts from the soldiers further in the Manor.  
  
Julia swept past him. Draco saw her from the back for the first time, and realized, to his shock, that she wasn’t a solid statue as he’d assumed. Yellowed bones, with bits of cloth and skin still fluttering from them, worked inside the metal shell like the cogs of some intricate machine; when she turned back to see why he hadn’t followed her, her skull rotated inside the head. The intense blue eyes were still the same, though, incongruously living in the midst of bone. The smell of rotting flesh and congealing blood and pus streamed backwards from her.  
  
“Come, Draco,” she said. “I can sense that your son is in danger. Surely you will not neglect the task you awakened us to accomplish?”  
  
 _Scorpius._  
  
Draco surged grimly forwards. He would risk far worse than marching beside the dead to rescue those he loved.


	39. To the Rescue

The Malfoy army came up in the middle of Draco’s bedroom; Draco found his wrist gripped by Julia so that she could haul him up more easily. He winced and rubbed his wrist unobtrusively, but then moved out of the way as the other figures of iron and silver and platinum streamed up behind them.  
  
There was his grandfather Abraxas, whose metallic face Draco had always watched in the crypts with the sensation that he would have liked to have known him; he had not imagined how terrifying that face would be when combined with living, Malfoy gray eyes. There was the older Lucius, who had been Julia’s nephew, and who had always said that his aunt taught him more about politics and terror than a hundred other relatives could. He carried a sword that Draco had not noticed settled at his side in his resting niche. In fact, peering at it more closely, Draco could see it was actually a large splinter of stone that Lucius had broken off, probably from the wall of his tomb.  
  
And there was Octavius, with wild carved hair and a sour sneer, and Regulus, who was rubbing his hands together in ghoulish glee, and Septimus, the only other platinum figure in sight besides Julia, who had guided the family grimly through one of their many losses of fortune and then back into wealth and prestige again before he died. He was looking about Draco’s bedroom with a slow, considering air, as though trying to judge whether the decorations and furniture were ostentatious enough for a Malfoy. Draco felt a faint prickle of nervousness. Unlike a visiting aunt or cousin, he wasn’t sure that Septimus would confine himself to insults.  
  
“Come, Draco,” Julia said. “Your son is this way.”  
  
Draco felt the hot sting of his own blush. How could he have forgotten about Scorpius, even for a moment, in admiring the dead army he’d raised? He shook his head fiercely at himself and turned towards the door.  
  
A Salazar’s Snake opened it first, charging through with a wild yell and a brandished wand that flung a burning hex. Draco knew the spell. It was designed to singe an enemy’s hair and clothing and catch him off-guard. Rather a good spell to use, when the man couldn’t know who was behind the door and whether the Masked Lady would want them alive or not.  
  
Of course, the hex utterly failed to ignite on Julia’s metallic body. And as the man slowed to a halt, staring at her in slowly dawning terror, Julia’s fist slammed forwards. Draco winced in involuntary sympathy as he heard bones splinter and crack, and saw the man slump as if suddenly turned to mush.  
  
“I hope all of them are that easy,” Draco said.  
  
“I don’t,” Julia said, and strode through the door, casually banging it open when it would have fallen shut against her. “I want an excuse to shed blood. You need experience in the joys of fighting, nephew.”  
  
Draco was beginning to see why his father had told him never to raise the crypts save in dire need.  
  
*  
  
Harry’s kick slammed into a startled Andromeda, catching her off-balance and making her stagger. She wasn’t  _quite_  out of reach, though, and she hadn’t dropped her wand, so Harry didn’t consider his task over. He swung himself back against the clutch of the spell—it was rather like hanging from a tree branch and gathering momentum by pushing off the trunk—and then kicked again on the forward swing.  
  
This time, his foot connected with the side of her head. Her eyes crossed. Still not down, much less dead, but dazed, and Harry knew he could use the moment to do something.  
  
“ _Help_!” he yelled, as loudly as he could, in case Draco had no idea where they were. Then he focused his will and reached past the pain of the minor wounds, which his rage and fear had almost dulled, exerting all the wandless magic he could against the spell holding him still.  
  
The hex broke with a brittle snapping sound. Harry sobbed as he dropped and caught himself; Andromeda had partially skinned one leg, and he hadn’t realized how much it would hurt to tear open the clotted blood on the wound.   
  
But he was still committed to his children first, before his own pain or  _attending_  to his own pain, and he limped stubbornly forwards. Andromeda had almost recovered from his kick. Her hand was firm around the wand, and Harry experienced a brief moment of regret that he wouldn’t be able to yank it away this time, either.  
  
But he had done all right without a wand so far. He was still alive. The children were unhurt. He didn’t know if ever Hermione or Ron could have managed the same thing, in his situation.  
  
He put himself between the children and Andromeda first. Then he picked up Al and gathered him close with one arm, offering the other to James. James came without complaint, his eyes wide. Al buried his face against Harry’s robes and utterly refused to look up.   
  
Harry snarled silently as he looked at Scorpius and Lily. There was no way that he could carry both of them as well as James and Al, and he couldn’t trust Lily to James; he wasn’t strong enough to support her head.  
  
In the end, Harry curled himself around Scorpius, shielding him with his torso, and dragged Lily close with his right arm; Al was holding on like a monkey of his own free will and strength. And then he turned to face Andromeda, whom he knew must be completely recovered.  
  
She was staring at him. Her lips were bloodless, her eyes wide. Harry couldn’t read the expression on her face at all. He tensed and lifted his head, determined to stare her down, ready to twist in any direction that might provide a modicum of protection for the precious lives he carried.  
  
 _Ready to shed your blood and use your body as a defense, aren’t you_? asked a voice in his head that sounded a lot like Draco’s.  _You always were good at that.  
  
And you were good at the unexpected and devious, so get in here and help me_, Harry snapped back. Another crash echoed from behind Andromeda that might be the real Draco’s answer to his silent prayer. Harry hoped so.  
  
Andromeda might as well not have heard the sound. “You’re like me, aren’t you?” she whispered. “You want to defend your children at any cost. You would do  _anything_  to fulfill your duty to them.” A note of hurt crept into her voice. “You were the one person I thought would understand me, because you were the one who cared most for me and Teddy in the wake of the war. And yet you struggle and fight and protest that what I’m doing is wrong. Why  _can’t_  you understand it?”  
  
Hope fired in Harry’s heart. Unexpectedly, he had been handed another chance to persuade Andromeda. And he could rely, now, on Draco’s ability to rescue himself and battle the Salazar’s Snakes, and, hopefully, to rescue Teddy and Narcissa. From the sound of falling walls and screams, whatever help Draco had brought along wasn’t small.  
  
“I understand, Andromeda,” he said. “That doesn’t mean I  _agree_  with you. And you lost most of my sympathy when you attacked Al.” He felt his son’s hands tighten their grip on him, as if he had heard his name and understood what Harry was referring to.  
  
“That was only to frighten you,” Andromeda said quickly. “I would not have cast the Cruciatus on him. I swear I would not have cast the Cruciatus on him.”  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes. “But I heard you casting the spell. Why should I trust you now?”  
  
Andromeda took a step forwards, her free hand extended. Of course, the other still held the wand. Harry paid as much attention to that as he did to her pleading eyes and the soft biting of her lip. “I didn’t want to kill you. It was only political necessity that drove me, in the end. Why do you think I fled the battle at Hogwarts instead of pressing the attack with the dragons, when I could have? I thought you were dead, and I needed time to deal with that. Does that sound like someone beyond all human sympathy to you, Harry? I swear to you that I would have gone back to normal when the war was done. Or else I would have died and been happy with my daughter and my husband.”  
  
“Did you consider what it would do to Teddy when he found out about you?” Harry asked.  
  
“He would have understood,” Andromeda said. “He loves me.”  
  
“Learning bad things about my parents almost destroyed my image of them,” Harry said, thinking of the taunting, bullying James he had encountered in Snape’s Pensieve. “And that was a schoolboy prank. This is much worse. Did you  _really_  think you would still have his love and loyalty, undisturbed, once he grasps how much pain and suffering you’ve caused? Even if you do now, what about when he gets older? When he meets people who lost family members in your attack on Diagon Alley? When he realizes that George Weasley, whom he regarded as an uncle,  _died_  because of you?”  
  
Andromeda’s expression changed like a pool of rippled water with shadows moving across it. Harry watched intently, ready to take advantage of any opportunity that presented itself, hardly aware he was holding his breath.  
  
*  
  
“No match for us.”  
  
So Julia had casually estimated the Salazar’s Snakes and the other wizards and witches clad in light blue robes with golden masks—Draco was sure he’d learned about them during one of the meetings with Granger and other high officials at the Ministry, but he couldn’t remember which group they’d be—who ambushed them as they marched out of Draco’s bedroom. And she was right. Some of the attackers paused to stare when they finally grasped what the “enchanted statues” actually were. A few fainted or ran away. And the rest cast spells that were absolutely useless against metal driven by powerful, ancient magic and backed by animated corpses. Regulus and Septimus had already cleared a path of bodies and were taking great delight in stepping on outstretched arms, dropped wands, and vulnerable heads. Draco had not known there were  _quite_  that many sounds for a shattered skull to make. Meanwhile, Octavius called out derisive judgments on their skill in playing “head-music” when he wasn’t slamming his fists into stomachs or spines.  
  
Draco was sure he recognized one of the men who had marched him down to the closet; the harsh, panting breaths he gave were familiar. He focused all his will on that particular coward—he hovered at the back, pretending to strategy but probably just afraid to approach Julia—and snapped, “ _Accio_  hawthorn wand!”  
  
The pocket of the man’s robes rippled, and he tried to clap a hand over it too late. Though the burst of wandless magic left Draco lightheaded, he had his wand in hand in the next moment. He pointed it at his captor, whose eyes widened slightly in the moment before Draco used a Blasting Curse to send him flying backwards through the wall.  
  
Julia clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. “With not much more practice, you’ll be striking as strongly as we are,” she said in approval, and then turned and delivered a graceful kick that broke apart the wand of a witch who had thought herself safely out of range. Draco was sure he saw her pale behind the golden mask just before Julia fell on her like a mountain.  
  
Draco held out his wand. They could probably learn the location of the prisoners just by watching the direction in which the guards fled, but he didn’t have Julia’s Scorpius-sensing powers, and he didn’t want to wait. The Masked Lady might have stepped up her torture as soon as she realized rescue was coming.  
  
“ _Point Me_  Scorpius Malfoy,” he whispered.  
  
The wand barely twitched before it was pointing dead center down a side corridor. Draco sprinted off at once, unafraid; he could hear Julia snapping at Lucius and Abraxas to follow him.  
  
*  
  
Andromeda moved.  
  
Harry whirled to the side, and then froze, caught between the necessity of not crushing his children and still offering some protection to Scorpius, whose hands had locked in the back of his robes. That was when the spell hit, and when Harry heard what it was and knew it was aimed at him, he was inclined to think that Andromeda might feel a spark of mercy towards the children after all.  
  
“ _Imperio_!”  
  
The dizziness and drifting sensation he just barely remembered slammed into his mind and began gnawing away at his will. Harry reckoned Andromeda thought the pain and the wounds he had endured would slow him down and make him vulnerable to the curse. Or had he even told her about his being able to throw off the Imperius during the duel with Voldemort in the graveyard? He couldn’t remember.  
  
And he shouldn’t waste  _time_  remembering. Andromeda had given him a golden chance to fake obedience, but he could only take it if he set his will against the spell, and wandering thoughts wouldn’t do that.  
  
He let his face fall slowly slack, his jaw open and his eyelids droop as if he had started to fight the curse but found it too much effort. His arms loosened their hold on the children, but just slightly. Not even for the sake of perfecting his deception could he hurt Lily or James by dropping them.  
  
“Harry,” Andromeda said softly. Her voice was much more persuasive and charming than Barty Crouch’s had been, and of course easier to resist than the sharp command Voldemort had tried to hit him with.  
  
“Hmmm?” Harry turned his head inch by inch, trying his best to calculate the speed that would convince her he was entranced. Too slow or too fast could both be deadly. “Andromeda? Dromeda?” He deliberately used her husband’s old nickname for her, and saw her blink rapidly. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Asking you questions, Harry,” Andromeda said gently. “And asking you to do something for me.”  
  
Harry let a dopey smile widen across his face. “Of course, Andromeda,” he said agreeably. “Anything for you.”  
  
“Daddy?”   
  
James sounded terrified. Harry regretted the imposture then. But this was still better than watching her curse his children with Unforgivables, so he just patted his son’s head absently and set him down. Lily went onto the floor beside him. Al continued to cling to his robes, and since Andromeda hadn’t specifically ordered him to do it and Harry knew the bodily sensations of people under the Imperius were supposed to dull, he didn’t bother to remove him.  
  
“Good,” Andromeda breathed. “Now, Harry, I would like you to smother that little brat clinging to you, if you would be so good.”  
  
The grasp of Al’s hands grew tighter and tighter; Harry couldn’t be sure he understood, but he wouldn’t put it past him. James drew in a harsh breath. Scorpius began to cry.  
  
“I…” said Harry, and frowned while he thought it over, playing for time. He had already heard the sharp footsteps coming nearer and nearer.  
  
*  
  
Draco had not realized that the path the wand pointed might take him to more than one prisoner. Why  _wouldn’t_  the Masked Lady have separated the children from each other, after all? It would make it easier to control and frighten them.  
  
If she had not killed them already, and Draco’s wand was not leading him to a corpse.  
  
But the wand tugged him straight through a door—perhaps guarded once, but the guards had fled—into a sitting room where Narcissa started to her feet, pulling a boy protectively behind her. Draco had enough time to catch sight of familiar slanted features and purple hair that told him the boy was a Metamorphmagus, and thus probably the missing Teddy Lupin, before Narcissa said, in a strange, harsh voice from which hope was deliberately stripped, “Draco? Are you real?”  
  
Lucius and Abraxas came in behind him then, and halted at the sight of Narcissa. Both gave low bows. Lucius said, “It is comforting to know that the heirs of our house have not lost their taste for beautiful spouses.”  
  
Abraxas snorted and pushed Lucius in the back, nearly causing him to drop his sword. “She is well enough, and it is the boy we have come for,” he said shortly. He strode around Narcissa to the far door, which flared with wards Draco recognized as capable of unleashing fire. Of course, when a shield of flame manifested around Abraxas, he simply ignored it. The door was pushed open then, and he went in.  
  
“There is something you must know first,” Narcissa said. “The Masked Lady is your aunt Andromeda. I recognized her wand.”  
  
Draco blinked, reeling, trying to absorb the blows and understand what was happening, but his attempt was interrupted by a pair of screams from the next room. One was the sound of something living, the other the sound of something dead.  
  
*  
  
In the end, the decision was simple to make. What else could he have said? Harry had shaken his head and murmured, “No.”  
  
Andromeda’s face altered again, but this time towards sadness. “I had hoped that you would wake to a sense of my own grief, and understand then, if you lost one of your children,” she said. “And yet, I still did not want to kill them.” She shrugged, and her expression was once more as calm as it had been when she first removed the mask. “Enough games, now.”  
  
And then a statue smashed the door down and barreled straight at Andromeda. Harry caught a glimpse of reaching metallic hands, a carved death mask lit by living eyes, and a hungry expression, half-snarl, half-smirk, on the thing’s face. He had a moment to wonder what this was and how he was going to protect the children from it.  
  
Then Andromeda swung around, aimed her wand, and cried, “ _Flamma draconis_!”  
  
Harry thought all the children screamed at once when the fire rose around Andromeda, pure and coruscating white, streaking blindness across Harry’s vision even as he shut his eyes and ducked down underneath the heat. He still screamed as his clothes began to burn in the backwash, more terrified than hurt; the children might be burning and he would not know. And he heard the statue that had attacked Andromeda scream, too, with a sound like grating metal on stone that went on and on and on. The flame she conjured must have been hot enough to melt it.  
  
He rolled frantically on the carpet, trying to put the flames out, trying to dislodge the children’s hands as they reached for him. And then he was scrambling up again, certain he was free of fire, panting and more aware of the wounds Andromeda had inflicted on him than he wanted, desperate to see.  
  
The flames had swallowed the statue, but spread on and around the door, a solid wall. Andromeda stood coolly considering them as if nothing had happened at all. Harry glanced back at his children and saw James holding Al, who cried with frantic sobs. Lily was wailing. Scorpius looked too terrified to weep anymore.  
  
James looked up at him solemnly. “It’s bad magic, Daddy, innit?” he whispered.  
  
Harry nodded. He had no idea if Draco would be able to get through the flames. He’d never heard of a spell that conjured such intense fire; it was one that Andromeda had probably learned from Dragon-Keepers.  
  
But he had no choice now, and so he drew upon his tattered magical strength and focused all of it on her wand.  
  
“ _Accio_  Andromeda’s wand!” he screamed.  
  
It flew out of her hand, but abruptly lost momentum and fell to the carpet midway between them, almost into the burned patch where he had rolled to put his clothes out. Harry sprang for it at the same instant Andromeda did.  
  
*  
  
Lucius halted where he was, his stone sword nearly falling from his hand, a terrible expression on his face. Draco knew he couldn’t grasp what the death—perhaps—of Abraxas had done to him.  
  
But Draco knew exactly what to do about the white flame now surging around the doorway and getting ready to advance into the sitting room where he, his mother, Lucius, and Teddy stood. Marian had taught him this spell, during the years when they had still been friendly, just as she had probably taught it to the Masked Lady—Andromeda.  
  
And now was not the time to lose himself in the strangeness of his aunt being the Masked Lady. What mattered was that Marian had also taught him the counter.  
  
“ _Glacies aeterna_!” he bellowed, and threw all his outrage that Andromeda still stood between him and Scorpius, and maybe Harry, into the spell.  
  
The white flame creeping around the doorway froze and hardened. Pieces of it were breaking off a moment later. It had become ice as forbidding as the flame was, but Draco knew he could cross ice as he could not cross fire. He sprang forwards, flailing as he slipped but grabbing the doorway to sustain his balance, barely aware that Narcissa was right behind him.  
  
Draco saw the puddle of melted slag that must have been the remains of Abraxas. He saw the children, looking terrified but physically unharmed; his heart gave a leap at the sight of Scorpius’s small blond head.  
  
And he saw Andromeda and Harry—Harry with skin flapping all over his body, horribly wounded, bleeding—struggling frantically over a wand. As he watched, Harry got his hands on it between their tangled legs, but Andromeda twisted and kicked, apparently determined to deprive him of it if she could not have it herself. The wand spun through the air and flew straight past Draco. He ducked to avoid it, then aimed his wand at Andromeda. There was only one spell he deemed safe enough to use on her.  
  
“ _Avada_ —“  
  
“ _Lethargus aeternus_!” another voice called, strong and steady. A dark cloud whirred past Draco, so close he lost his concentration on the Killing Curse, and settled around Andromeda like a swarm of insects.  
  
Draco’s aunt opened her mouth, probably to scream. But she only had time to draw in one long, huffing, terrified breath. The next moment, her eyes closed and she went to sleep with a finality that stunned everyone into silence. Draco could hear Harry swallow.  
  
A voice broke the silence.  
  
“She always feared most to go to sleep and never wake up. She would rather have died violently, in battle, so she could see it coming. She told me that when she was seven years old.”  
  
He turned to find Narcissa standing behind him, staring at her sister. Her face was closed and cold and had no expression at all. In one hand was Andromeda’s wand.


	40. Marian

Harry crouched breathing in the silence. He was still tense, still quivering with the need to snatch a wand—  
  
And now his enemy was asleep. Permanently asleep, if he recognized the curse that Narcissa had used correctly.  _Lethargus aeternus_ , eternal coma.  
  
He could not really believe that it was over, and that Draco was here now, and that Andromeda was down, and that the children were not injured.  
  
Well. Not physically, anyway.  
  
Harry shook his head, dazedly, and started to drag himself to his feet. Draco’s eyes locked on him at once, and then he appeared to Apparate. Harry realized it had really been a rapid bound across his aunt’s body a moment later, when he felt Draco’s arms curling around his shoulders and supporting him tenderly. He put his weight on his right leg, and hissed. It seemed that the wound there had broken open yet  _again_ , and so had one on his hip that he didn’t specifically remember Andromeda casting.  
  
Al was next to him, lifting his arms and crying soundlessly, begging to be picked up. Harry started to bend to do that, but Draco said quietly, “You’ll tear your wounds open again,” in a tone that could not be disobeyed.  
  
“I have to, Draco,” Harry said, and then started. He had not realized his voice would sound that hoarse, or that hollow. He wondered if some of the hollowness came from the wounds in his cheeks that exposed part of his teeth and gums.   
  
Draco lifted a hand to those cuts before he could, slowly drawing his wand along them and pressing the hanging flaps of skin back into place with a murmured healing spell. Harry nodded his thanks and then stooped down and scooped Al up before Draco could oppose him. Draco sighed, but just tightened his grip on Harry’s elbow, as if to say that he could hardly object to such things when he was a father himself.  
  
“Are the children injured at all?” he asked Harry.  
  
“If they were, do you think I would have let you tend to me first?” Harry arched his brows at Draco, then glanced at the door. Another of the statues that had come at Andromeda was peering in at them. This one resembled a model of Draco’s father, and held a large splinter of stone in its hand. Harry eyed it with a new respect. Despite the success of Andromeda’s dragon-fire spell, he didn’t think magic would ordinarily be able to defeat one of these creatures. “Are the Salazar’s Snakes and the others being taken care of?”  
  
“The army I called up from the crypts will do that.” Draco’s face was slowly lightening, as though he could shake off the gray shock and return to emotions now. He abruptly crushed Harry in a fierce embrace, even as his mother brushed past them in order to pick up Scorpius with one arm and Lily with the other. “God,” he whispered into Harry’s ear, “I was so  _worried_  about you.”  
  
“And I about you.” Harry turned his head, letting his cheek rest in Draco’s hair for just a moment. They couldn’t wait too long. They had the children to take care of and other responsibilities, as well, such as figuring out what they would do with Andromeda. “I thought you might lose your mind in the darkness.”  
  
“I was stronger than that.” Draco’s lips were moving lightly enough against his ear to tickle. “Thanks to you.”  
  
Harry sighed softy and let his eyes fall shut. He could accept, now, that recovery might be possible.  
  
*  
  
Draco had a terrible time convincing Harry to sit down and let him heal his injuries. It seemed that Harry wanted everything else settled first: the children taken care of, Teddy talked to and hugged and reassured, Narcissa questioned on the nature of the spell she’d used, the statues asked about what they would do now the enemy they’d been summoned to defeat was gone. Draco finally hauled Harry into the room where Narcissa and Teddy had been held prisoner, forced him into a chair, and set about healing him while everyone else crowded around, so that Harry could see and talk to them all as necessary.  
  
The sight of Harry’s injuries made Draco nauseated, as did the faint, recurring tremble in his limbs that Draco knew to be a sign of the Cruciatus Curse. Andromeda had tortured Harry in front of his children— _their_  children. And Harry had accepted the pain as though it were expected, and still managed to keep her attention fixed on him, so that the children were spared any of her spells.  
  
If he had not been in love with Harry before, he would have been now.  
  
Draco’s own hands trembled as he brushed flakes of dried blood from Harry’s hair and set about healing the cuts Andromeda had put on his scalp. Harry gave him an affectionate look and gripped his wrist, hard.  
  
The children were settled. James stood next to his father, clutching Harry’s robes with one hand and content to be quiet. Al sat in his father’s lap, his thumb firmly in his mouth, his head buried against Harry’s chest. Narcissa had cuddled and soothed Lily, and Scorpius was content as long as he could rest on his grandmother’s shoulder and watch Draco.   
  
And then Harry called Teddy over, and embraced him, and spoke softly to him.  
  
Draco had barely had a chance to study him, this cousin of his. Teddy Lupin was a quiet boy—understandably—with regular features, who wouldn’t have stood out in a crowd. Draco thought he had the Black nose, though, and there was something about the corners of his eyes that seemed to come straight from Narcissa herself. His hair was deepest black-purple right now, and abominably curly, and he avoided everyone’s eyes, staring at the floor.  
  
Only when Harry said, in a slightly exasperated voice, “Teddy, of  _course_  we don’t think that you knew anything about what she was doing!” did the boy look up a little. Some life crept back into his face.  
  
“You believe that?” he whispered. “Because, Harry, really, I  _didn’t_. I didn’t know  _anything_.”  
  
“Of course not,” Harry said softly, and his hand rose and stroked Teddy’s hair in a way that reminded Draco of the way he handled his own children, or Draco, or, really, anyone who needed to feel calmer. He made a wonderful people person, Draco thought, as he leaned on his lover’s shoulder. Harry gave him a quick, faint smile before he turned back to his godson. “If anything, I think she would have been desperate to keep you out of it. You were the one link back to a normal life she had, the one promise that things would calm down again when she was done killing.”  
  
Teddy swallowed. Then he said, “I—I thought she acted strange. She couldn’t bear any mention of Mum sometimes, and then sometimes Mum was all she could talk about. But she told me that people just took grief differently. When I lost her, I’d know that.” His eyes slid closed, and he wrapped his arms around himself and shuddered helplessly.  
  
Harry hugged him again, and held him until he stopped shivering. Then he let him go, tactfully, Draco thought, because no boy that age would like to be held and made to feel dependent for too long. “What happened when she burned the house and took you away?” he asked softly.  
  
Teddy shook his head. “She cast some sort of sleeping spell on me. I woke up once on the dragon’s back, and I could smell the house burning behind us, but when I tried to twist around, she put me to sleep again. The next thing I knew, I was here.”  
  
Draco hissed between his teeth. Andromeda had been able to enter because he’d knocked a hole open in the wards for her and Teddy. And he had thought it was Marian.  
  
 _Not that my traitorous wife will receive a warm welcome from me, simply because she was not the one to betray this particular secret. She certainly told Andromeda other things that helped her to try and incapacitate me._  
  
“You don’t need to worry, Teddy,” Harry said firmly. “I’ll adopt you. You’ll be part of my family as long as I  _have_  a family. Do you understand? I’ll be your godfather, and your father, too, if you’ll have me.”  
  
Teddy hugged Harry then, bowing his head and blinking hard in an effort not to cry. Draco waited for the optimum moment, when he didn’t think it would be resented, and leaned around Harry to put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. Teddy looked up at him, still blinking.  
  
“And the same thing goes for me,” he told Teddy. “Harry and his children will be staying in Malfoy Manor for the foreseeable future. I understand if you don’t want to stay here because the memories are so awful, but—“  
  
Teddy shook his head. “I—I was  _helped_ , here. I would hate to go back to our house, though, because every corner is full of memories.” His voice sank, and he looked away for a moment, his fingers working together.  
  
Narcissa stepped forwards, her face set in the serene expression Draco knew well. She used it to mask great emotion. She had worn that look the first night Harry and his children came to stay in the Manor, and when Lucius went to prison, and when the Dark Lord commanded her to join his entourage in Draco’s seventh year. “You are welcome here, for my part,” she said. “I should have got to know my sister again, and then perhaps things would have turned out differently. And I would like to get to know you.”  
  
Teddy turned and leaned on her without hesitation. It was probably different with a woman, Draco thought, and especially with a woman his grandmother’s age or near it. “Thanks,” he whispered. “Yes, I want that.”  
  
“It shouldn’t be hard,” Harry said. “Andromeda was your primary guardian, but I’m named second on your birth certificate, because I was godfather.” He shifted and looked up at Draco’s mother. “And now, Narcissa, can you please tell me what spell you cast on Andromeda?”  
  
*  
  
Narcissa stepped forwards slowly and looked Harry in the eye. Harry looked back. He could see no trace of the concerned sister under that mask she wore, but then again, he wasn’t sure he would want to. Narcissa seemed inclined to the same instincts he was in a situation like this: be strong, so that others could collapse. Harry just needed answers, and he sensed that she would give them without hesitation.  
  
“It’s called the Eternal Coma spell,” Narcissa said calmly. “There is no returning or waking from it. She’ll sleep for the rest of her life, until she dies of old age.”  
  
Harry didn’t miss Teddy turning away from the corner of his eye, but he wasn’t sure he could offer the lad any more comfort. Besides, Teddy’s emotions were not so easy to discern, from the brief glimpse Harry had had of his face. Concern? Regret? Relief, even? If his grandmother was asleep—  
  
She could not stand trial. She could not wake to reprimand Teddy, or make his life worse. She couldn’t bring any unwanted attention to him from the papers.   
  
Of course the Blood Reparations Department would have to know the truth, because they were the Ministry officials most involved in this case, but they would be able to tuck it away far more quickly and neatly than if the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had brought Andromeda before the Wizengamot. The Masked Lady could remain the Masked Lady to the world at large. Her followers would be the ones blamed for the majority of the attacks and crimes, and that was just fine with Harry. Pure-blood and Muggleborn supremacists deserved whatever came their way if they were idiotic enough to try and foster war between the factions, or work together for the sole purpose of causing war.  
  
 _And that, of course, would be why Narcissa used the spell, other than the delight she probably took in causing her sister that single moment of intense fear before she fell asleep._  
  
Andromeda asleep wouldn’t bring any negative attention to the Malfoys, either. And it wouldn’t force Narcissa to watch her sister be put in Azkaban beside her husband, as she surely would have been. Andromeda could be put into St. Mungo’s, paid for by the Malfoys but cared for by  _other people._  
  
Narcissa had thought of all those consequences and made the best decision she could in just a few seconds.   
  
Harry was unable to prevent the respect from creeping into his eyes. Narcissa inclined her head and smiled at him a little. Then she put Scorpius gently down on the stool behind her and aimed her wand at Harry.  
  
“You still have some wounds untreated, Harry,” she said. “And I think that one of our ancestors needs to speak with Draco.”  
  
Harry glanced up. Sure enough, another statue, female this time, leaned in from the doorway across the room and beckoned Draco. He couldn’t help reaching up to touch his lover’s hand, offering him support and reassurance if he needed it.  
  
Draco smiled at him, squeezed his wrist, and walked towards the statue. Harry studied his back. Only a short time past, Draco’s shoulders had been hunched under the weight of intolerable burdens—apathy and a profound lack of interest in the outside world among them. Now he walked like a warrior.  
  
And he was. He had faced and conquered his own internal fears alone in whatever room the Snakes had put him in. He had summoned help for them and saved them all.  
  
Harry suspected his face was melting into hopeless love as he stared after Draco, but Teddy was looking aside, his children were too young to really understand, and Narcissa diplomatically said nothing about it.  
  
*  
  
Julia cocked her head at Draco the moment they stepped through the doorway, and then shut the door. Draco was startled for a moment, but shrugged it off. For all he knew, Julia was about to say something that only the current head of the Malfoy line should hear, and that would certainly be her privilege as the leader of an undead, immortal army.  
  
 _Mostly immortal_. He winced at the thought of the metallic puddle that was all that remained of Abraxas. Lucius had confirmed, curtly, that there was no way to raise Draco’s grandfather or bring him back, and turned away. Draco had not pressed.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me about the life-debts?” Julia said now.  
  
Draco blinked, unnerved. “You can sense them?”  
  
“ _Smell_  them,” Julia said. She was staring at Draco with those living eyes, and he was more certain than ever that being born several generations after her was the right idea. “They’re hanging around you and your Harry like the smell of white-hot iron. Mingled, piled on top of each other, some of them years old, half of them unfulfilled. You _know_  that the only choice in such a situation is to give yourselves to each other. Why haven’t you?”  
  
“Harry is bound by the strictest set of marriage vows,” Draco said bitterly. It felt good to have someone to complain to to whom this was all new, someone who wouldn’t turn away from the truth or flinch like Granger had the habit of doing. “He can’t touch someone other than his wife with desire, or he gets the most horrendous itching. We _are_  lovers, because the debts have provided us with dreams that are nearly as good as the real thing. But the marriage vows won’t simply cease, and Granger—a friend of Harry’s who’s fairly good at research—said that they’re as stubborn as the life-debts. The last time we were near Harry’s wife, Ginny Weasley, the debts and the vows together nearly tore him in half.”  
  
Julia reared her head back like a striking snake. “The solution is simple,” she said. “Only lure this Ginny Weasley here, and I will kill her.”  
  
Draco felt a wave of temptation so intense that it stole his breath. Then he shook his head. “Harry would never forgive me,” he said ruefully. “Even though you’re right, and it is the simplest solution.”  
  
Julia tapped her fingers against her hips with a sound like bells being clashed against stone walls. “And you are sure this Harry is worth the aggravation in remaining together with him?” she asked. “Understand, I think him handsome and dedicated enough to you to make a good Malfoy spouse, but one must consider the political standing that you gain from him, and how peaceful your life will be if you take him to bed.”  
  
Draco grinned. For once, there was an advantage to the fact that his ancestors had been down in the crypts for several generations. “Actually,” he said, “Harry saved the entire wizarding world from the latest Dark Lord ten years ago. The political currency from dating him can’t get much higher.”  
  
Julia nodded, looking grudgingly impressed. “And you care for him?”  
  
“Love him,” Draco corrected. “Yes.” Then he held his breath, wondering if his ancestress would think that a weakness her nephew had to overcome.  
  
Julia stood in silence for some moments. At last she said, “If you will not consent to the death of his wife, then I wonder what the woman we found cowering in the back of a closet on your second floor still means to you. She wears the ring that speaks of a Malfoy wedded spouse, but she does not look like one.”  
  
Draco swallowed. “That would be Marian MacFusty,” he said. “She was my wife, yes, and the mother of Scorpius. But she vanished some time ago, apparently either murdered or kidnapped. I quickly learned that she was working with my enemies. She had used blood magic to create a hydra that nearly destroyed me. After that, she seemed remorseful and sent us what warning of attacks she could. But she still turned her back on me and betrayed all the confidence which spouses should repose in one another. I ask that you not kill her, if only because that would mean another murder charge against me.”  
  
Julia nodded again. “But you will come with me to speak with her. Both because it is necessary before we return to the crypts, and because I wish to see what happens to the smell of the life-debts when she is around you.”  
  
Draco barely had time to give his assent before Julia clasped his hand and hauled him gently but inexorably along.  
  
*  
  
Marian sat chained to a chair in the center of the small, dusty alcove where Julia led Draco, her wrists bound so tightly that they were already turning red. Draco wondered for a moment where Julia’s army had got chains, and then decided, very carefully, that he would not ask.  
  
She started up when she saw him, but of course the manacles yanked her back into her seat again. “Draco,” she whispered, with almost no voice behind the words. She didn’t bow her head, though, and her eyes didn’t overflow with tears, which were both things Draco would have expected before this little adventure with the Masked Lady. She continued gazing straight at him, her face filled with an odd sort of hunger. That was explained when she asked, “How is Scorpius?”  
  
“He survived,” Draco said quietly. “Uninjured in body, though he was forced to witness Harry’s torture, and so I suspect he may have some trauma.” He folded his arms and contemplated his wife. He had expected to feel a fiercer hatred. Now, though he knew Marian had wronged him, it was more a distant, weary unconcern, the desire to have things done and over with so that he could return to the life unfolding in front of him. “No thanks to you,” he added.  
  
Marian flinched and looked away. “I know,” she said. “I didn’t know what the Masked Lady was when I betrayed you to her. You have to understand, Draco. I was desperate. I didn’t think I would ever get a chance to touch my son again, as long as he remained in your custody. I struck back where I thought I could, and when some of her minions approached me and offered me vengeance in exchange for information, I thought I had to accept it before the offer was retracted.”  
  
Draco grunted and tilted his head. “And it didn’t occur to you that this might end up hurting Scorpius more than it hurt me?”  
  
“Not until I realized the Blood Hydra would strike wildly.” Tears stood in Marian’s eyes, but did not fall. “The Masked Lady had reassured me that only  _you_  would be hurt. Not even Narcissa. I didn’t want to hurt her, and the Masked Lady was very anxious to avoid it, too, for some reason. But I knew she was lying to me when I managed to coax one of her servants to give me more details about the Blood Hydra. And from then on I sent notes with warnings of her attacks whenever I thought I could get away with it. That wasn’t for very long, unfortunately. The Lady tightened her watch on me.”  
  
Draco nodded. “She’s defeated. And she was my aunt Andromeda Black Tonks, which explains her reluctance to hurt Narcissa and her interest in Scorpius and you sufficiently, I think.”  
  
Marian just stared at him in shock. Then she whispered, “I’m sorry.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Marian shook her head. “I just—blood shouldn’t turn on you that way. I know how I would feel if one of my aunts betrayed  _me_. It’s one thing when you’re entering an arranged, passionless marriage—“ her eyes flashed at the words, as if she actually imagined she could hurt Draco with them “—but blood relatives are supposed to stay loyal to you.”  
  
Draco felt a flash of irritation. Where had this reasonable woman been for the last two years? He could have attempted reconciliation if Marian had acted like this. He might never have ventured outside the house, might never have met Harry again—  
  
And then he was grateful that this Marian hadn’t been around after all.  
  
“Well,” he said, to center himself, “she’s gone. And I’ll consider what we’re going to do with you. It won’t be death, but I don’t know what it  _will_  be, yet. I can’t just forget what you did to Scorpius, or to me.”  
  
Marian nodded, staring at him intently. “I know. I understand.”  
  
Draco stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him. He thought he would have preferred a woman who kicked and fussed and screamed to this too-calm one. He glanced at Julia, who stood with her arms folded; she had remained out of Marian’s sight, probably so as not to panic her.  
  
“What do the life-debts smell like?” he asked curiously.  
  
“They are stronger than your marriage vows,” Julia said instantly. “And, I believe, they are the equal of your lover’s. I could sense the magic stirring when you were around your wife. It wanted to get you away from her and push you back towards your lover—only natural, since it has worked to unite you with him. But it was missing two essential presences to be able to complete its work.”  
  
Draco frowned. “Harry, of course. But the other person?”  
  
“Harry’s wife.” Julia leaned towards him, her mouth folded into that intimidating smile. “Bring Ginny Weasley into contact with you and Harry at the same time both of you are near your traitorous bride. Then, you will see what the magic has planned to ensure that it completes its work  _and_  allows the marriage vows to continue to exist.”


	41. Halved

“She wants to do  _what_?”  
  
Draco could not blame Harry for being wary; he would be, too, if Julia hadn’t explained it to him so well. But she had, and that meant he felt confident in proposing the plan to Harry.   
  
“Your wife won’t be hurt,” he said gently, running one hand up and down Harry’s arm. Harry still lay in his own bed, with bandages crisscrossing his wounds to be sure that they wouldn’t break open again. Draco had performed healing spells until his lips were numb yesterday and brewed a few of the simpler healing potions for Harry, but it would still be several days until he was able to walk comfortably. “And of course we won’t do this until your injuries are healed and you’re able to stand on your own.”  
  
“That’s—not it.” Harry’s hands played with his blankets. “I trust you, Draco, and I know that you would never put me in danger deliberately. But you heard Hermione. This situation isn’t one that’s in the history books, or in wizarding lore at all. How can we be sure that it will resolve the way your ancestress says it will?”  
  
Draco gave him a quick kiss. “Do you really want to live out the rest of our lives like this?” he asked when he heard Harry make a noise of discomfort as the itching started. “Unable to touch each other for longer than a few moments, at least with any desire? Condemned to meet in a dream-world and have sex with each other only there? Or do you want something more? Do you want that life that you saw in your dreams, where we’re full partners, able to play with each other and love each other to the fullest extent?”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. He was sitting with his hands folded in his lap, now, because refraining from touching Draco was necessary in order to calm down the marriage vows. But the lines of tension around his eyes told Draco that was at least thinking about it.  
  
Draco played with his hair, and waited. Harry blew out his breath in a shaky exhalation and opened his eyes at last. “And you think that Ginny would come to the Manor if we asked her to?” he asked.  
  
Draco nodded at once. “Why wouldn’t she? She’s probably dying to know what’s going on.” He heard a snide tone creep into his voice, and tried to suppress it. He and Harry had owled the Blood Reparations Department with the truth yesterday, but had forced Granger and her people to meet them at the gates of the Manor to collect Pensieve memories, the captives, and Andromeda’s body, rather than intrude. Their official excuse had been that the children didn’t need to see strangers right now, which was certainly true. Granger had said she understood. On the other hand, she had looked increasingly anxious throughout the interviews because she couldn’t intrude and control the situation. Ginny had to be frantic, too, Draco thought. She had already shown that she had no sense of good timing when she showed up on the battlefield outside the Tonks house to “persuade” Harry; why should she be any happier about being shut out now? She might even think that her place was at her husband’s side, if she was really as penitent as she had tried to act.  
  
“What about Marian?” Harry asked, with no voice behind the question. “You told me that she sounded more reasonable.”  
  
“She does,” Draco admitted. “Her experiences serving under Andromeda changed her.” He had talked with his wife a bit yesterday evening, when he wanted to fill in missing gaps in her story. She had explained that, as she had joined Andromeda out of longing to touch Scorpius again, so her longing to protect him had brought her back to rationality; she would rather have seen him safe with Draco than in danger because of her own political affiliations. Her comments about blood betraying blood had convinced Draco she spoke the truth. Marian had come dangerously near to betraying her son, in light of her own principles. She was anxious to make up for that.  
  
“But you—“ Harry seemed to be nerving himself up for some large question, but Draco still didn’t expect it when it came. “You have no desire to get back together with her and give Scorpius a normal family and a mum?”  
  
Draco stretched his arms around Harry and locked them carefully into place, so that neither his elbows nor his hands were resting on any wounds. He let Harry feel the possessive tightness of that hold, not enough, by itself, to trigger the marriage vows. And he whispered the resulting words into Harry’s ear, making him shiver.  
  
“She can never be to me what she was. I haven’t trusted her since the day she tried to take Scorpius and run. And though I do believe she’s changed her mind and would cooperate with me as much as possible in the raising of him, why should I settle for a passionless marriage when I could have  _you_?” He paused, then added, “Are  _you_ having second thoughts, Harry?”  
  
Harry twisted around in his embrace and glared up at him. “Of course not! But then, I don’t think I’ll ever trust Ginny again. It sounds as if you  _could_  trust Marian.”  
  
“Miracles of reconciliation and healing are possible,” Draco said. “But I’ll just take the miracle I already have, thank you.”  
  
Harry rested his head against Draco’s chest. Draco spent a moment stroking his hair, letting him make up his mind once more.  
  
And then Harry nodded slightly. “Let’s do it.”  
  
*  
  
“That’s important?” Draco eyed the large, round mirror Julia was rolling into place against the wall of the alcove where they had, until a few hours ago, kept Marian. He was virtually certain that the mirror was not one he had seen about the Manor in the last few years. Probably the ancestors had found it in some ancient corridor or corner and polished it to a high gloss again. He took an instinctive step back when his own reflection came into view.  
  
“Of course. When you told me about the life-debts manifesting at first through reflective surfaces, I knew we would need this.” Julia strode forwards a few steps, frowning at the mirror, and then grasped it and rolled it another quarter-turn. She finally turned to face him, her eyes and smile matched in intimidation factor. “Did you not think it significant that mirrors played so large a part in the visions connecting you and your lover?”  
  
“I didn’t know  _why_ ,” Draco admitted with a small shrug. “And once we had accumulated five matching scars, it seemed we could save each other’s lives and the debts would take hold without needing mirrors.”  
  
“But for this, the final transition, you do need one.” Julia swayed her head back and forth, facing her own reflection. “From what you have told me, not even being in the same room as your wives might work. The visions—the tunnels—that open and attempt to take you through badly need a destination, a place to reach to. And this shall provide one.”  
  
“I still don’t understand why,” Draco complained. “If what Harry and I have is rare even in the history of life-debts, the connection to mirrors is unheard of.”  
  
“It should not be so strange.” Julia gave him a sharp grin over her shoulder. “You have heard those old stories, the old superstitions, that our reflections in mirrors live in alternate, separate worlds?”  
  
“But they  _are_  only superstitions,” Draco said, bewildered. “One of the first things the Founders of Hogwarts did was experiment with mirror magic. They concluded that it was much more limited and less powerful than generally supposed.”  
  
“The Founders of Hogwarts did not have multiple life-debts binding them.” Julia paused wistfully for a moment. “Though I grant it would have been amusing if they had. The rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin would have had to take a different turn then.”  
  
“But you weren’t alive when they were.”  
  
“Of course not. But I did pay more attention to the history textbooks I had than any of you modern children seem to have.” There was scorn in Julia’s face that made Draco flush, for all that he knew she was  _dead_  and would return to her crypts the moment the matter of the life-debts was successfully settled. “And one thing I remember about history is that it may be made again. Just because this has never happened before does not mean that it would never happen.”  
  
“Yes, Aunt,” Draco muttered. Julia had explained in broad, vague terms how the “transition” and “fulfillment” of the life-debts was to work, but not enough to satisfy him. But since it was the only solution he and Harry had been offered so far, Draco was wise enough to clasp it.  
  
“Do not look so dejected, nephew.” Julia chucked him under the chin as she passed him, which was rather like being nuzzled tenderly by a sword. “Soon enough I will solve your problem, and then I will be gone from your daily life.” She paused in the doorway of the alcove, glancing back. “And  _do_  try not to get yourself involved in another spectacular mess quite so soon, hmmm? I am not used to being called back more than once in a generation.”  
  
*  
  
Harry swept Al into his arms and held him close to his chest for a moment. Al clung to his robes and accepted a kiss, but squirmed to get down when Scorpius called his name across the room.  
  
Harry let him go with a small smile. Whilst his children were still not easy with what had happened, and liked to have him in sight a majority of the time—even Teddy had taken to wandering casually into the rooms where Harry sat for a while—they had recovered more quickly than he dared hope. Having Scorpius for a friend helped Al along. Narcissa’s constant attentions to Lily kept his baby daughter happy and cooing.  
  
And Teddy and James had helped each other. Evidently neither of them wanted to look too scared in front of the adults, but looking scared in front of each other, or at least spending a lot of time together and with the house-elves, was acceptable. Teddy was cheerfully challenging James to a puzzle contest right now, figuring out one of the toys the house-elves had deposited in front of them, and Al and Scorpius were sitting down next to a set of wooden horses that moved by themselves.  
  
Harry took a deep breath and stepped carefully out of the room, wincing a little. The skin on his legs and hips was still tender, not that he would admit that to Draco. He wanted to be  _out_  of bed—not even having his lover fussing over him made that experience pleasant for him—and he wanted to confront Ginny and get this over with.  
  
Draco had dropped some of the wards around the Manor, with his ancestors extending magical senses through the gaps and watching for the approach of any enemy. He had promised that if the pain got too bad for Harry to endure, or if something unexpected went wrong, any of them would be able to Apparate away to safety. And there were house-elves standing by with orders to take the children to safety, as well.  
  
This was the best chance they would ever have to end the problems, to free Harry from his marriage vows and please the life-debts. Harry knew he would regret not taking it forever if he let it pass by.  
  
But still, he was frightened.  
  
He worked through breathing exercises as he walked down the corridors, extending his arms over his head and wringing them in circles behind his back, both to calm himself down and test the range of movement. His wand, which Andromeda had hidden in one of the chests Narcissa had brought along from her childhood home, rested comfortably in the waist of his robes, where he could get at it in an instant. He could feel his muscles moving without effort, without strain. He was healed, and rested.  
  
He would have to do this.   
  
And he must not show his fear. If he appeared nervous in front of Ginny, she wouldn’t trust him enough to come further into the Manor, and it was imperative that she do so.  
  
His wife was waiting at the front gates of the Manor. The moment they vanished, she ran through and flung herself into Harry’s arms. He stood there for a moment, holding her, and soothingly patted her shoulder. He tried to imagine himself reconciling with her, as he had envisioned Draco perhaps reconciling with Marian.  
  
Nothing. He was not as angry at her as he had been, but there was nothing there to hang onto or build on, either. He pitied his younger self, who had engaged in the strict marriage vows under the firm conviction that nothing could happen to change his mind or his love. Massive changes happened all the time.  
  
Harry did manage to smile at Ginny when she lifted her head and murmured, “I missed you, Harry.  _So much_.”  
  
“Thank you for coming,” he said. Since he couldn’t return her sentiments, he thought the best thing was to avoid any and all declarations. “Draco wants to meet and talk to us in the company of his wife, Marian.” He wouldn’t have been able to explain what Julia Malfoy hoped to accomplish even if he thought it wise to try, but he wouldn’t fool Ginny about whom they were going to meet. “If you’ll come?”  
  
Ginny frowned and pushed a strand of hair behind her ears. “We can’t have any time alone to talk, first?”  
  
“We can have it, if you still want it, after we meet Draco and Marian,” Harry promised. A thrill of mingled fear and excitement raced up his back.  _If Julia is right. If the marriage vows and the life-debts both have to exist, then we’ll have the time for a talk. And we’ll need it, Ginny and I. At least, in a sense, it’ll be Ginny and I who need it._  
  
“What’s going to happen?” Ginny was staring at him, and her eyes were as piercing and strong as they had ever been since the day Harry walked up to the wizard who would marry them and saw her waiting for him, clad in a shining gown and a garland of flowers.  
  
“I don’t know exactly,” Harry said, which was only the truth.  
  
She stared at him again, but, after a moment, nodded, and kissed him—Harry tried not to grimace, as in truth he felt nothing—and let him lead her in.  
  
*  
  
Draco could feel sweat prickling under his collar as he waited for Harry in front of the enormous mirror with Marian at his side. He could sense green and golden shadows stirring in the glass. He refused to look at it directly, though.  
  
Marian had likewise refused—to take part in this at all, she said, unless she could touch and hold Scorpius for an hour that morning. Draco had reluctantly permitted it, with house-elves and Malfoy ancestors watching her the entire time to be sure that she didn’t try to Apparate with his son. Marian had not. She had come back from the encounter quiet, cold, and pale, though, and she kept shooting Draco looks of intense dislike.  
  
He could live with that. If what Julia proposed was true, he would be happy to, after this morning.  
  
In a sense.  
  
With part of himself.  
  
Harry’s footsteps sounded down the corridor beyond the alcove, accompanied by the almost soundless footfalls of his Weasley. And Draco saw the shadows in the mirror begin to churn anxiously, rearing and falling like waves in a storm-lashed sea, while swirls of white-gold magic, barely visible, drifted about him like snowflakes.  
  
 _When he comes into the room_ , Julia had said,  _he must endure. Whatever happens. If you wish this to end._  
  
Seeing his lover about to put his life in danger displeased Draco to no end.  
  
But if Julia was right, there would be life beyond.  
  
*  
  
Harry stepped into the alcove, with Ginny slightly behind him. She had wanted to take his arm, but he had managed to detach her politely halfway down the corridor, without making it obvious he was doing so. If Julia was right, no one should be touching him when the life-debts began to fulfill themselves.  
  
If Julia was right.  
  
Despite the defeat of Voldemort, despite his recent fear that Andromeda would hurt his children, Harry thought that stepping into the room where Draco and Marian waited was still the bravest thing he had ever done.  
  
The moment he stepped in, the life-debt magic pounced.  
  
The air flared white-gold and turned uncomfortably hot. Harry put an arm over his eyes, but didn’t struggle as he had in the past, when the magic tried to pull him down the tunnels and he didn’t want to go. This time, he wanted to go. He relaxed his breathing as much as possible, even when he heard Ginny shriek, even when he felt the pull begin as the marriage vows rose to the challenge with a snarl and began to drag on him like red-hot wires sunk in his flesh.  
  
Julia had explained, much to Draco’s displeasure, that Harry’s enduring the greater pain was inevitable, because the life-debts bound him as strongly as they did Draco, and his marriage vows were much stricter. Draco would feel some tugging as the life-debts attempted to get him away from Marian.  
  
Harry would be halved.  
  
And it was necessary, and it made sense, even, Julia said, given the mirrors that had stirred with shadows of another life and the visions that had tried to reach out to them and the dreams as clear as memories of another past.   
  
But Harry hadn’t fully understood the magical theory. He had to trust that he was doing the right thing, as Ginny’s cries grew angrier and more fearful, as his own fear of leaving Draco alone and his children without a father mounted—  
  
And as the pain increased, piling on top of itself until he was barely conscious, barely sane.  
  
*  
  
Draco could feel his hands growing slippery with blood as his nails dug into his palms. He couldn’t look down and attempt to pry his fingers out of the skin, though. He couldn’t withdraw his gaze from Harry.  
  
Harry had fallen to his knees, his hands clasped around his head, his breath traveling outwards in long, low moans more heartbreaking than any scream. Around him, reducing him nearly to a silhouette because of their brilliancy, two kinds of magic raged, wrestling each other, coils of dark rusty red-brown piling on top of living wreaths of white-gold. And each kind of light had sunk firmly into Harry and was tugging.  
  
He had to let them tug.  
  
Julia had said so.  
  
Harry had said he could bear it.  
  
Draco banished, as best as he could, the vision of his lover battered and bleeding when Andromeda had tortured him in front of their children. This was not like that. This was for the best. And Harry was still there, not dead, though the biggest sign of it was the way he writhed as the magic spat and played around him like a lightning storm.  
  
Draco felt a hand catch his elbow, and he turned his head, barely making out Marian’s face in the madness. She shouted at him, her words already dim and dull in his ears, “What is  _happening_?”  
  
He shook his head and shrugged off her hand. It would be disastrous if someone touched Harry while he made the transition, but it wouldn’t be much better if someone was touching him.  
  
He looked back at the crouching figure, a solid black now, hardly visible, the light making Draco’s eyes blink and water and long to close.  
  
But he would not—could not—look away, not as long as Harry was crouching there.  
  
*  
  
Harry wailed. Or he thought he did; it seemed increasingly hard to get any breath into his body that would  _permit_  him to wail. His hands were clawing into his hair. His skin felt as if it were being scalded off his bones. He had no bones left, in fact; they were melting down to useless slag, like the ground in front of the Tonks house when the dragons came.  
  
But he could do this. He wanted to give himself to Draco. And that, Julia had told him, was utterly necessary. If he had not been willing to pay the price and fulfill the life-debts, they could never have become equal in power to the marriage vows, no matter how many of them he and Draco accumulated.  
  
 _Equal. Equal. They’re equal. They both have to come true. And tearing me apart would ensure that neither of them does._  
  
That solid sliver of logic and magical theory was all he had to cling to as the pain grew worse, and then worse again, and then twice as worse again, and soon he was repeating  _equal, equal, equal_ , in his head without remembering what the word meant.  
  
And then—  
  
He heard the glass of the mirror rip itself apart, splintering and shattering. He heard the white-gold magic boiling around him make a snarling, triumphant sound from the left side of his body. The marriage vows uttered the same sound, at the exact same moment, from the right side of his body.   
  
And in front of him, around him, across him, on every side, the same tunnel that had several times tried to bear him and Draco to another world opened.  
  
Harry gave a sob of relief, and spread his arms wide. The pain had ceased abruptly. But he still felt a shudder down to his bones, rocketing through him and down and  _up_ , and then spreading out in a flood of ripples to every corner of the room.  
  
He turned his head.  
  
He found himself looking into his own eyes.   
  
Already the two of them crouched on either side of a perpetually widening breach. One half of the image, his, was filled with the white-gold dance of life-debt magic, the other half with the dusty red-brown of the marriage vows. Harry watched with wonder and awe so keen it felt like numbness as the magic, in the ferocity of its obedience to its own laws, created  _two_  worlds, two Harry Potters, two men—one of whom, him, could become Draco’s partner in a world where the life-debts were fulfilled and the marriage vows had never existed, and the other of whom, the second Harry, could remain Ginny’s husband in a world where the life-debts had no power and the marriage vows were intact.  
  
The second Harry Potter turned away and clutched at his Ginny, who had come rushing up beside him. Harry turned away, as well, but only to watch the spreading of the process, the doubling.  
  
He was drifting in the midst of a white-gold sea, which every moment changed colors and became more solid as it duplicated the original world, weaving an alternative universe where the dreams were real, where the visions he and Draco had seen were real—the world behind the mirror. It had been only a reflection for years, Julia had explained, but it was always trying to become true. If he and Draco had not been so stubborn, and if Harry’s marriage vows had not been so strict, it would have snatched them through the gate and come into being years ago. But that would have meant kidnapping them from their own world and making them into the Harry and Draco of the visions. Only an equal, opposing magic could have forced the creation of two separate realities instead.  
  
And the people he and Draco had imagined when the visions tried to snatch them away had delayed the creation of that world, too. He had not been able to imagine living in another place without his children, without his friends, and Draco had likewise relied on images of the people  _he_  loved to keep himself safely at home. The life-debt magic had wanted to make them  _happy_ , so it would have to bring along everyone they loved into the other world in order to ensure that they were so.   
  
Now, with the magic expanding around him and the power growing softer and softer the farther it traveled, Harry wondered, in his exhaustion, how much would have changed. Of course, he knew what his and Draco’s past for the last ten years was like. The dreams shimmered in his head, solid as memories—their reality, now. There had been a reason that the life-debt magic was so very careful to ensure they remembered the dreams. In this world, he and Draco had been lovers for a decade, he was an Auror, they had had an argument that resulted in their traveling to northern South America instead of the Caribbean or Peru—  
  
And they had had their children in a distinctly different way, which Harry didn’t know about yet, but their children were still there, as Al proved when he came dashing into the room a moment later, pursued by James, who was pursued by Teddy.  
  
Harry opened his arms to embrace them at the same moment as Draco hugged him hard from behind.  
  
And  _then_  the tears came.  
  
*  
  
Draco stood shakily with one arm around Harry’s shoulders and the other holding Scorpius, who had toddled in in the company of a house-elf and demanded to hug his Daddy. Narcissa stood in the doorway, holding Harry’s baby daughter, frowning at them both quizzically.  
  
And behind her was Julia.  
  
Though it would necessitate all kinds of explanations to Narcissa later, Draco spoke to his ancestress first. “Did it work?”  
  
“Look behind you,” said Julia, with a predator’s smile.  
  
Draco turned. The large mirror hung on the wall there, as in the room in the—the other world—but it did not reflect them. Instead, it reflected that other world, with the second Harry standing securely in his wife’s arms. The second Draco stood facing Marian, now and then casting glances at Harry and shaking his head, as if he had awakened from a dream.   
  
Another world, where the marriage vows were satisfied. Safely shut behind glass, where it could never come back to haunt them.  
  
Draco buried his face half in Harry’s shoulder and half in Scorpius’s hair, and thought,  _I’ll take this one._


	42. Different Worlds

“I think I need to hear this explanation again,” Harry said finally. “In terms that I can understand, this time. Which means—“ He darted a glance at Draco, who just blinked. He didn’t see why Harry should blame  _him_  for this. “No abstract magical theory.”  
  
Julia nodded. She had led Harry and Draco away from their children and Narcissa as soon as possible, into a secluded sitting room where they could talk without interruption. She had her arms folded across her lap now, in a gesture that Draco would have thought meant she was cold if she were human. As it was, with her eyes darting back and forth between them, Draco thought it might just mean that she was keeping herself from restless movements that would unsettle Harry further.  
  
“Very well,” she said. “There has  _always_  been another world coming into existence, Mr. Potter. What did you think the mirrors and dreams were doing? They were showing you—and constructing, when you were asleep and refused to look into the mirrors—the world that could have been, if you had chosen the honor the life-debts from the moment that you gave his wand back to my nephew, instead of marrying your wife.”  
  
Harry shook his head lightly. “But that world—“  
  
“This world,” Julia corrected him. “The one you’re living in now, where you and my nephew have satisfied the life-debts by giving yourselves to each other, and where I don’t intend to be summoned out of my crypt to deal with this again anytime soon.”  
  
Harry nodded this time, looking abashed, though Draco didn’t know why;  _he_  was hardly the one who had summoned the Malfoy ancestors. “But  _this_  world didn’t actually exist until we came into it. Did it?”  
  
“No. But once you came into it, it had always existed.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes and massaged his forehead with one hand. Draco felt a burst of affection and a burst of exasperation at the same time. Really, the magical concepts behind this were not  _that_  complicated, or shouldn’t have been for someone like Harry, who had lived through so many strange magical events in his life. He really should have paid better attention in school, Draco thought, taking a grip on his hand.  
  
“I think, Aunt,” he said, “that Harry is having some trouble in figuring out which world is real—this one, or the one where a version of himself still lives with his wife.”  
  
“They both are,” Julia said quietly. “Think of it this way, Mr. Potter. If you take a cloth and tear it into two strips, but do not tear it completely, so that the strips are still connected by a small string at the very end, which is the real cloth?”  
  
“They both are,” Harry said, opening one eye and frowning at her.  
  
Julia smiled triumphantly. “And so is the case here. These two worlds do share a common origin. Every bit of their history up until ten years ago is the same. But in this world, you chose to stay with my nephew and fulfill the four original life-debts by the giving of yourselves to one another. That means that you never married your wife, you have been an Auror, and you have been lovers with Draco for ten years—exactly as the dreams told you. The dreams were so vivid because the life-debts would not simply have plopped you into another world without a history. They wanted you to have memories, a chance of living in another place and knowing each other—“  
  
“But  _that_  part isn’t real.” Harry looked as though he had scored a point in his argument with himself.  
  
“Yes, it is,” Julia said patiently. Draco held himself back from battering the truth into Harry’s head, though he would have liked to. Julia could explain it better. “The dreams became real when you landed here. If you examine your body, I think you will find scars that come from adventures you dreamed.”  
  
“But the history I lived through—“ Harry glanced at Draco. “ _That_  is the real history. It has to be.”  
  
“It was real to you until a few hours ago,” Julia said quietly. “Now, it is not. Now, it is the history of the Harry you left behind, and it is only as real to you as the dreams were real to you while you lived in that world.”  
  
Harry groaned under his breath. “So, in this world, I was never married to Ginny? I never worked in the Blood Reparations Department?”  
  
“Yes,” said Julia.  
  
“But then,” Harry said, as if pulling out a trump card, “how did I have my children? If I wasn’t married to Ginny—“  
  
“You will have to ask Narcissa about that, I should imagine.” Julia spread her hands. “Remember that I have also split into two, so that there could be a Julia in either world. I share memories and knowledge with you, since you told me about the dreams. But because none of your dreams included your former wives, I do not know what their fate here might have been.”  
  
“And there are so many other things that we don’t know,” Harry whispered, sinking into Draco’s side. Draco felt him shiver, and rubbed his shoulders encouragingly. “The memories that my friends have of the past ten years. What Draco does for a living. What Narcissa will think of us asking questions about our wives...”   
  
“Ah,” said Julia. “ _That_ , I can answer. There needed to be some explanation in this world for why you shut yourselves up in a room with a mirror, after all. This version of your mother, Draco, told me that you were conducting a magical experiment together—something that I believe has to do with your occupation here. You had told your mother that you might be a bit woozy when you came out of it, and take some time to regain your memories. She will be prepared for odd questions that you ask her.”  
  
Draco smiled. “Thank you.”  
  
“I have one more question,” Harry said. “I’ve resigned myself to not understanding everything, if I have to.” But his lips were clamped shut, his nostrils flaring, and Draco thought he would probably take another run at understanding soon. “What will happen in that world we left behind? What will happen to—that version of myself who has my old history now, and my marriage vows, and my obligations?”  
  
Julia’s smile twisted upwards. “For that,” she said, “you must look into a mirror.”  
  
*  
  
Narcissa smiled kindly and shifted Lily from one arm to the other so that his little girl could more easily reach the bottle she held. “It’s understandable that you would forget about Weasley and Marian for a little while in the wake of a powerful magical explosion, Harry. After all, you and Draco have focused on the children and not the women who produced them.” She looked down at Lily with such a besotted expression that Harry found himself smiling in spite of his anxiety.  
  
Draco had barely left his side since they came through the mirror. Harry was glad of that. Whenever he needed to be reassured that he hadn’t gone mad or wasn’t suffering through some extended dream that gave him whatever he wanted but would demand a horrific price on his waking, he could lean sideways and feel Draco’s warmth against his flank. Draco always squeezed his hand when he did that.  
  
“Marian was a contract, of course,” said Narcissa, and stroked the red fuzz forming on Lily’s head. “The pure-blood families have often done such things, in cases where a man or woman wanted children but did not want to marry, and as long as the legalities are respected, then such children are not any more looked down upon than the progeny of a legitimate marriage. Marian was an applicant who indicated that she would be willing to produce a child for Draco, but only one child. Her family did not so much pressure her to have an heir of her own as pressure her to bear a child so that she would seem like a woman in the eyes of a few of her older relatives.” Narcissa sniffed. “She would not have been the less a woman for remaining childless. But the ideals of the MacFusty clan are not mine.  
  
“She contracted with Draco, had sex with him once, and carried Scorpius to term. She comes now and then to visit her son, but in truth, she does not seem all that interested in him.”  
  
Draco trembled. This time, Harry was the one who leaned against him and offered what reassurance he could. He could only guess how relieved Draco must be, that in _this_  world Marian was not the kind of mother who would seek to kidnap his son from under his nose.  
  
“Your arrangement with Weasley was more complex.” Narcissa smiled at Harry, but there was a shade of pity in it. “She has been in a long-term relationship with that fellow—who is he, I can never remember his name, but he is the Seeker for the Montrose Magpies. But at any rate, he cannot give her children. She wanted children, and she knew that you did as well, even though neither of you could have stood to live in a permanent bond with one another. So you agreed, out of a friendship that I  _still_  do not understand, to have a few children together. I think Weasley found the experience less pleasing than you did. The moment she had a daughter, she ended the agreement.” Narcissa glanced down at Lily again and ruffled her hair. “And who would not have at least waited for this wondrous girl to be born?” she whispered.  
  
Harry relaxed a little. At least, in this world, even if this version of Ginny had some of the same issues that his—  
  
Or, really, the  _other_  Harry’s—  
  
Ginny did, she had not let them control her relationship with her children. She could easily keep her distance from them, here, if she found herself growing irritable and snappish with them. And Narcissa would be the most adoring mother Lily could ever want.   
  
“Thank you,” Harry said, when he realized that Narcissa had finished her recitation and was staring expectantly at him. “It does seem strange that I can’t remember this, yet, but I think bits and pieces of the memories are starting to come back to me.”  
  
Draco nodded. “To me, as well.”  
  
Narcissa smiled at them, and stood to kiss Draco on the forehead. Harry was more than startled when she kissed him there, too, right over the scar, without a flinch or a hesitation. Perhaps that was only her usual routine in this world where he had been part of her family for ten years. She wandered out then, cradling Lily. Harry and Draco sat in silence for a moment. Harry could hear the shouts of James and Al squabbling over something, with Teddy’s and Scorpius’s gentler voices joining in now and then.  
  
And because they were alone, he felt free to turn to Draco and ask, “Do you think what we did was wrong?”  
  
*  
  
 _Marian will keep her distance. I have Scorpius and Harry in this world, and not her. That is wonderful._  
  
Draco was so full of his own thoughts that it took him a moment to wrench free of them and consider Harry’s question. When he did, he frowned and studied his partner more closely. Harry was staring at him and gnawing on his lip, a good sign that he was close to interpreting Draco’s silence in the wrong way.  
  
Draco put his arms around Harry and kissed him first, for reassurance and for the sheer pleasure in feeling the flex of  _real_  muscles under his hands and  _real_  lips beneath his, without the nagging marriage vows to drive Harry from his embrace. Harry gasped and opened his lips eagerly. The sensation was both delightfully new and wonderfully familiar, given that Draco knew it from the dreams they’d shared.  
  
Harry let Draco bear him backwards until Draco was entertaining serious thoughts of locking and warding the door and making up for all the times they had missed right here, but at last Harry raised a hand and placed it firmly on Draco’s chest. Draco sighed, recognizing the signal that he wasn’t about to get everything he wanted right at the moment. He sat up, but kept his arms locked in place around Harry. He would never get enough of holding him.  
  
“Why would it be wrong?” he asked.  
  
“Because,” Harry said, “of the way that things are probably going in the other world. We left—well,  _me_  there, and  _you_ , and their children, with wives that they don’t love. How can they possibly have happy lives? Do we deserve to have happiness when it comes at their expense?”  
  
“This was always going to happen,” Draco said, as calmly as he could, because of course Harry would try to ruin his joy with pesky ethical considerations like that.  _Stupid Gryffindor_. “The life-debts would have kept tugging until you either changed your mind about uniting with me—“  
  
“I never could have done that,” Harry murmured, and buried his face against Draco’s shoulder.  
  
“Or until the worlds split.” Draco ran his hands up and down Harry’s back, nudging the robes aside so he could reach warm, yielding flesh. “They had to come true, and so did the marriage vows. What other solution do you imagine existed?”  
  
“I can’t think of anything,” Harry admitted. “I just wish that there was a way to keep everyone happy, for us to have what we wanted, and yet give Ginny and Marian what they wanted, too.”  
  
Draco closed his eyes and sat in thought for a moment. There was no way that he would ever be in perfect agreement with Harry; he despised Marian too much, and he loathed Ginny Weasley for what she had done and tried to do to his lover. But perhaps he could find the words that would persuade Harry to see things his way.  
  
“Think of it like this,” he said slowly. “There’s at least a chance that those other versions of ourselves will find happiness, isn’t there? The life-debts won’t come true in that world. That means those versions of ourselves have to change their minds about being lovers. You’ll probably go back to your wife, and I’ll—content myself with something else.” The words stuck in his throat, but he knew they were true. He wasn’t the kind of person to spend the rest of his life pining over someone else. Harry would have been the first choice even of his other self, he was certain. But he could live without him, at least now that he was out of the gray apathy that had consumed his life for ten years in that world. “There’s at least the chance that new love can grow, and that you and Weasley will reconcile, and that I’ll come to some accommodation with Marian about Scorpius.”  
  
“There’s the chance,” Harry echoed bleakly. “But we don’t know.”  
  
Draco opened his eyes swiftly. “That’s right,” he said. “And now that we’re in a world where the life-debts haven’t scarred us like they did before, because we accepted them from the beginning, I’m the one who has to work to make sure you put your own happiness first. There’s nothing we could have done that would be perfect, Harry. There’s no way back now. Julia said that much. For the rest of their lives, and ours, we’ll only be images in mirrors to them, and they to us. And you’ll have to get used to that.”  
  
Harry was quiet. Finally he murmured, “I reckon I never got used to being happy without someone else paying a price for it.”  
  
“I think the price is acceptable,” Draco said firmly. “And just in case you don’t, I think I can change your mind.” He leaned down and fastened his lips on Harry’s.  
  
Harry responded almost desperately, his hands clawing up the middle of Draco’s back, his blunt fingernails claiming their share of skin. His legs opened wide and twined with Draco’s, as well. Draco hardy minded. Though the experience in the dream-world had been real in every sense, there was still something special about actually lying on the real Harry in the middle of the real Malfoy Manor.  
  
Along with real children, he realized, when someone began hammering on the door of the study, and then Al screamed, “Daddy! James hit me!”  
  
Harry began to laugh against his mouth, and that allowed Draco to sit back and turn his growl of exasperation into a chuckle. Harry pressed his hand, straightened his clothes and hair—well, as much as his hair would permit itself to be straightened, in any case—and laid a quick kiss on his cheek. “Later, all right?” he whispered, before he slipped off to tend to his sons. Draco could hear his voice alternating between scolding and reassurance just a few moments later.  
  
Draco lay back on the couch and stared at the ceiling, his arms folded behind his head. His breathing slowly returned to normal, and his body ceased to believe it had to feel Harry against it to feel alive.  
  
Instead, the happiness that had burned in him since they came through the mirror returned. He clutched it to himself, greedy as he had always been of both pleasure and joy; the latter had been even rarer in his life than the former.  
  
He would respect Harry’s concerns about the ethics of what they had done. He would give his partner all the time he needed to adjust to the fact that, here, he actually had what he  _wanted._    
  
But nothing could make him decide, for himself, that this was wrong, or that he was not allowed to feel happiness.  
  
*  
  
Harry nestled his face into Tutela’s soft feathers and tried to keep tears from coursing down his cheeks. What had seemed true at first really was true:  _every_  feature of the first world that he loved and needed had been duplicated in the second.  
  
The Guardian Angel hooted softly and cupped her foot beneath his chin. He had to look at her then, and Tutela hooted again, this time more strongly, when she realized he was crying. She bristled, looking twice as big as she had a few moments ago, and glared around the garden in search of the enemy who had hurt her human.  
  
“It’s all right, Tutela,” Harry whispered. “It’s joy and sorrow together, and there’s not much that anyone but Draco can do about that.”  
  
She didn’t look convinced, and scrambled to his shoulder to balance there with wings spread, just in case. Harry sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, desperately hoping he’d kept his tears concealed from the children who shared the garden with him.  
  
“Why are you crying?”  
  
He hadn’t kept his tears from Teddy, at least. Harry turned around to find that Teddy had turned his hair dark and his eyes green, making himself nearly the replica of Harry. He watched Harry with a solemn gaze, and it was so much like being watched by an older Al that Harry had answered before he realized that he didn’t know every nuance of his history with his godson here.  
  
“Sadness about your grandmother, I suppose,” he said, with a faint smile. Then he held his breath and hoped he hadn’t just made a horrible mistake.  
  
Teddy’s face changed, but it was a tremulous smile that lit it, not the incomprehension that Harry would have thought would be there if nothing had happened to Andromeda in this world. “Don’t be, Harry,” he said, and hugged Harry hard enough to make him gasp for breath a little. “It was just her time. She’d been unhappy for years, I think, and she wanted to see Mum and Granddad again. So she left.”  
  
Harry clasped Teddy’s shoulders and nodded, while adding the information to the pile in his mind that differentiated this world from the original. Andromeda must have died, either of age or of simple loss of will to live. He had seen that a few times in his work for the Blood Reparations Department, when he was trying to track down older Muggleborns who hadn’t been able to bear the thought of losing their magic.  
  
But here he didn’t work for the Blood Reparations Department, did he? He was an Auror. Just as he had thought he might want to be the last time he was in Hermione’s office in the other world. An Auror was sometimes in danger, but he had a partner, someone to watch his back. And he didn’t work under a friend who had hardened too much for Harry’s peace of mind.  
  
Who was his partner here? What cases had they solved? The dreams hadn’t often included information like that, choosing instead to concentrate on the intimate detail of his and Draco’s lives. Harry supposed that made sense. The life-debts had wanted them, first and foremost, to be happy and comfortable with each other, and a lack of history for themselves would have counteracted that.  
  
“Thank you, Teddy,” he said, and hugged his godson one more time before he stepped away. “I should be the one comforting you, not the other way around.”  
  
Teddy shrugged, smiling a little, even though his eyes looked old and haunted—eyes, Harry thought, that the Teddy in the world where Andromeda had been cursed to sleep forever probably also had. “I thought it was coming,” he said. “I didn’t talk about it often, because she didn’t like me to; she thought I should concentrate on life, not death. But I wasn’t really surprised when I woke up the other morning and she was gone.” He paused and looked up at Harry with the first trace of anxiety he’d shown, other than the moments immediately after he rushed into the room where Harry and Draco had conducted their “experiment.” “But you are going to file the adoption request, aren’t you? You’re going to make me yours as soon as you can?”  
  
“Of course,” Harry said firmly. “I’ll do that now, in fact.” He was sure that he could owl to the Ministry for the necessary information if he didn’t find the documents somewhere in the Manor. “Would you like to watch? I might need you to sign something, anyway.”  
  
Teddy’s eyes were so bright that Harry stifled another impulse to cry. Tutela, on his shoulder, finally hooted and smoothed her feathers back into place.  
  
*  
  
“Harry?”  
  
Harry looked up in surprise. Draco had left him by himself for some hours while he talked with his mother and put Scorpius to bed. Harry, who was preoccupied with other paperwork for Teddy and putting his own children to sleep, actually hadn’t expected his lover back so soon. He was currently writing letters to Ron and Hermione that would, delicately, feel out the present nature of the friendships between them.  
  
He rose and crossed the study to Draco when he saw the strain in his face, though. “What is it?” he whispered.  
  
Draco took his hand and lifted it to his lips. Harry waited patiently, eyes fastened on his lover’s face.  
  
“I think,” Draco said, “that we ought to look in a mirror.”


	43. I Give You a Wondrous Mirror

Draco could feel his heart pounding as he settled himself in front of the large mirror that had apparently hung on the wall of his and Harry’s bedroom in the Manor every day of this reality. It was a handsome piece, though not one he’d owned at home—  
  
 _The other home—_  
  
Highly polished glass with an inner fire almost like a diamond’s, in a gilt frame carved with sporting lions and snakes. Draco thought it made an acceptable gate through which to allow Harry his first glimpse of the place they’d left behind.  
  
Harry’s face was pale as he sat down to watch the mirror under Draco’s arm. Draco could understand that. He’d looked into a mirror already himself, wanting to experience the shifting images and test whether they would afflict him with guilt or sorrow, and it had taken him long moments to overcome the flinching sensation. This was the first mirror in ten years that hadn’t tried to attack him or show him things he didn’t want to see.   
  
At first, the glass solely and simply reflected him and Harry. Harry stirred restlessly.  
  
“Concentrate on what you want to see,” Draco whispered. “That’s the only way it works. I think the life-debts saw no need to have every random person who might look into a glass at the same time we did spying on our doubles’ lives.”  
  
Harry took a deep breath and leaned forwards, squinting. Draco wrapped one arm around Harry’s shoulders and one around his waist. That was only partially because he thought his partner might need support, depending on the image that appeared. Most of it was just sheer pleasure in the fact that he could finally touch Harry without punishment.  
  
Their reflections stretched, wavered, and then dissolved into boiling shadows, blue as the light of the sun on snow. A moment later, those shadows spun out, bleeding color, and formed into a small dining room that Harry recognized, from the way he quivered.  
  
The other Harry and his wife sat facing each other across a small table—Draco wondered how their house-elves managed to place all the food properly on it, and then reminded himself that they didn’t have house-elves—arguing quietly. As the picture grew sharper and clearer, echoes of their voices began to emerge.  
  
 _His_  Harry started. “That’s new,” he murmured.  
  
“Perhaps we would have heard sounds from the images that haunted us, too, if we had wanted to listen,” Draco said, and then quieted, because the other Harry’s voice was canting upwards at a sharp pitch.  
  
“—don’t think it’s going to be easy. But I  _want_  to do this, Ginny. I want to come back and be a part of your life and the kids’ lives again.”  
  
Draco’s Harry bared his teeth. Draco ran a hand through his hair and down to his shoulders. It really was all over, and he could watch his other self’s life but he couldn’t help him. That was another thing Draco was hoping this glimpse of the secondary world would teach Harry.   
  
“Why should I believe you?” Ginny’s eyes were red, and she rubbed at them now and then with the edge of her palm, making Draco fight to hold back a snort. There was acting and there was  _acting_. “Just a day ago, you were willing to give yourself to Malfoy, and you didn’t want me around you anymore.”  
  
“That was—“ The second Harry closed his eyes and swallowed. “I listened to James,” he whispered. “And Al. They missed their mum. And I missed you, too. I never realized just what it would cost me to become part of the Malfoy family. I never imagined that they had secrets like the ones they did hiding down in the crypts.” He opened his eyes and mustered a faint smile. “And it’ll be good for Scorpius Malfoy, too. He really needs his mum around. That would be much easier for Marian if I’m not clinging to Draco’s side.”  
  
“Coward,” Harry hissed.  
  
“Do you think it would have happened that way, if we stayed in that world?” Draco asked, not taking his eyes from the reflection.  
  
“Of course not!” Harry said fiercely. And then his voice got softer, and not just because the reflected Ginny was speaking again. “I can see the seeds of it in me. Wanting to make other people happy instead of myself. Being frightened by how much effort it took to go after what I really wanted and needed. Using my children as an excuse to shelter from passion. But I can’t become that person, not now.”  
  
Draco nodded, satisfied, and then paid attention to what the she-Weasel was saying again. Something about not being sure she could trust Harry, but that she wanted to, and she’d missed him, too. Now she leaned forwards, and put her hand on the other Harry’s, and said, “It’ll be a long, hard road, but I’m willing to try and reconcile if you are.”  
  
The Harry in the mirror gave her a reprieved, guilty smile.  _His_  Harry hissed again. Draco glanced sideways at him. “Do you want to see anything else of their lives, or look at me and Marian now?”  
  
“You and Marian.” Harry’s lip was curled with disgust, his eyes flashing in a way that made Draco suppress a moan; he badly wanted to change his suggestion to “shagging Harry through the mattress” instead. “I don’t think I can take any more of this.”  
  
Draco nodded, and together they faced the mirror and concentrated again. The shadows ate the other Harry and Ginny—whom Draco would be just as glad not to watch—and then formed into the shapes of the other Draco and his wife. This time, Harry flinched.   
  
Draco could see why. His other self’s face was pale and lost, and he kept glancing to the side, as if he imagined that Harry would be sitting in a chair next to him if he just looked hard enough.  
  
Marian, on the other hand, was bent over a long scroll, murmuring to herself and ticking off items on her fingers. “And of course I’ll be there for important public events, and to welcome Scorpius back from Hogwarts, and for holidays. And you can keep an eye on me to make sure that I don’t kidnap him and take him to the Hebrides.” She flung her head back defiantly and stared at her husband, as if to say that Draco would have no reason ever to suspect her of that again.  
  
The reflected Malfoy nodded heavily. “Yes, all right,” he said, and then leaned over to sign the scroll, followed by Marian signing it in a slightly different place. A legal contract, Draco knew. It was the only way his other self would be able to trust his wife around Scorpius.  
  
Marian stood and walked out of the study then, and that Draco closed his eyes and sat still for a long moment. There was an expression of such desolation on his face that Draco thought he would have been moved himself, if he could have reached through.  
  
But then the Draco in the mirror sat up, and set his jaw, and muttered, “Even if Harry was too scared to stay with me, there’s still Scorpius.”  
  
He walked out of the room with unexpectedly steady steps. Draco approved. If the poor bastard couldn’t have a lover or a partner suited to him, then he would live for his son. There were worse things he could have done, such as sliding back into the apathy that had consumed the past ten years of his life.  
  
 _His life. Not mine_.  
  
That was the most satisfying thing about their escape, to Draco. In a world where he and Harry had honored the call of the life-debts in the year after the war, they had both been stronger, more eager to defy conventions, more stubborn and apt to struggle against what their family and friends thought best for them. They still had children, but they weren’t bound to distasteful agreements in the creation of them.  
  
Altogether, life was better for them here, and that was all Draco needed to relieve him of any false notions about going back and settings things right.  
  
When he glanced at Harry, though, he surprised a look of intense pity on his lover’s face. Harry had even stretched a hand out to the mirror, but let it fall when the shadows ate that reflected Draco. Now he shook his head, his lower lip caught between his teeth.  
  
Draco took his jaw in one hand and turned Harry about to face him. “Now do you see there’s nothing we can do?” he murmured. “We have our lives, and they have theirs. Will you feel guilty for decades because we split the parts of ourselves that had courage apart from the pieces that didn’t, and obeyed magical law?”  
  
“No,” Harry whispered. “Not now. I can’t, now that I’ve seen them. That Harry could have tried to keep in contact with his Draco, even though the marriage vows would have prevented them from sleeping together. He could have faced up to the fact that he didn’t love Ginny anymore. But he’s retreating into the shell you rescued  _me_  from, with the scar and Tutela, and that’s his own fault. And doing those things is far more selfish than I ever realized.” He lifted his eyes to Draco’s, and determination had mingled with the sadness in them. “I won’t regret he can’t follow my path. I do feel sorry for the other Draco, though.”  
  
He lifted his hands and clenched them in the front of Draco’s robes. “And I won’t lose my own joy because I’m brooding over them, either,” he said, and hauled Draco’s face down to kiss him.  
  
*  
  
Making love in reality turned out not to resemble the dream-world very much after all.  
  
Harry had never realized how much the dream-world took care of, what with instant cushioning and lubrication and robes that simply vanished when one willed them to. For the first time, he had the experience of stumbling on the robe that he tried to haul off, and knocking his teeth against Draco’s as they kissed, and gazing at Draco’s entrance, when he spread his legs, with something like dismay, because it didn’t seem as if Harry’s fingers would fit in there, let alone his cock.  
  
But there were other things that he had missed and rejoiced in having now, such as the scrape of dry skin under his fingers when he first coated them with oil Draco kept in the bedside table, and the sharp catch in Draco’s breath as he arched his hips up, and how his muscles rippled and flexed when Harry repositioned him on the bed for easier access.  
  
And the knowledge that, in this reality, they had made love again, and again, and again, and that for them it was normal and expected.  
  
Here, he wasn’t an idiot who had only realized too late in life that he shouldn’t have bound himself with such restrictive marriage vows, and whose every experience of being in bed with Draco was shadowed by memories of being in bed with Ginny. He still had those memories, of course; those things had still happened to him.  
  
Or a version of him.  
  
But, just as it was his choice to feel guilt for his advantages over his mirrored self or to reject that guilt, it was his choice to let those memories matter or not matter.  
  
In this world, only he and Draco had those memories. No one else outside their two heads knew their pasts had been different. No one else knew that Harry was more familiar with itching vows than the taste of Draco’s skin.  
  
Harry took the first steps to correct that now, bowing his head in order to fasten his mouth on Draco’s hip.  
  
Draco undulated in surprise and pleasure as Harry sucked on his skin, purpling and marking it, and wearing out his own jaw. That hadn’t happened in the dream-world, either. Harry finally sat back with a gasp, shook oddly sweat-soaked hair out of his face—they’d barely exerted themselves, yet—and stared into Draco’s eyes. Draco stared back at him, face clouded with lust and excitement, and then made a pleading little push with his hips, urging Harry to  _get on with it._  
  
Harry smiled at him. He felt like laughing, and there were tears in his eyes.  
  
The small dots of blond hair covering Draco’s hips and stomach were springy against his fingertips when he pushed his hand over them.  
  
The taste of the skin on Draco’s right hip was subtly different from the taste of the skin on his left hip.  
  
His tongue pushed enthusiastically enough into Harry’s mouth when he was simply kissed, but it was nothing like the push he gave when Harry’s tongue was in his mouth and Harry’s first two fingers were in his arse.  
  
He was apparently capable of lifting his legs to heights when he was fucked face-to-face that would have stunned Harry if he had known about it before.  
  
The colors of his eyes were mesmerizing, powerfully so, when Harry at last angled his cock in the correct direction and pushed in.  
  
*  
  
Draco knew, now, that he had never had Harry’s full attention before when they made love. He’d always been distant, worrying about the marriage vows or the strangeness of shagging another man. And there had been the doubt and shadow of their situation with the life-debts and their children and the Masked Lady to worry about.  
  
Now, for these few moments, there was nothing but the two of them together, and they had nothing but time.  
  
Draco didn’t expect it to be this way every time. Sometimes it would be more impatient, sometimes stronger and angrier—the way that the dreams had shown them behaving when Draco was angry at Harry and pinned him down to really drive his cock into him—sometimes tight with the resentment of unpatched arguments, sometimes thicker with lust. The one thing the dreams, now their history, had been clear on was that this was not a  _perfect_  relationship, and never would be. It had nearly cracked apart more than once.  
  
But this was their phoenix moment, the one point in time when they first shared their bodies fully and freely. It might never come again, but that did not make it the less precious while it happened.  
  
Draco leaned back into the pillows and gave himself up to it completely.  
  
His faint fear that Harry would still need guidance melted when he felt the way Harry pushed into him, gently enough to allow Draco time to adjust, but fast enough that he never had to wriggle and whinge about Harry teasing him. Harry paused when he was fully in, throwing back his head and giving a long, loud exhalation of breath that reminded Draco of a horse at the beginning of a race. His skin quivered and gleamed with sweat; Draco didn’t have to concentrate to make his heartbeat out. He stood with his eyes closed, and Draco was content to wait and rest and admire him.  
  
Then Harry opened his eyes and began to thrust.  
  
Draco let the fire burn him. He gave up on trying to hold back the needy sobs and grunts and cries working their way out of his mouth. Let Harry know he was doing a good job, so he wouldn’t hesitate to act the exact same way in the future.  
  
His eyes rolled back in his head on a particularly well-placed thrust, and his mouth hung open, emitting no sound at all. God love Harry for being observant; he noticed, and thrust again at the same place and pace. Draco’s back arched, and he found himself humping his hips in the air. His legs were already over Harry’s shoulders, so that was quite a feat.  
  
Harry laughed breathlessly.  
  
Joy tore loose in Draco like flying fire. He soared in the dizzy spiral towards pleasure. Fear dropped away from him, and doubt, and uneasiness, until the only emotion left winging beside joy was love.  
  
And then his orgasm hit, but while the physical side of it was a release, the emotional side was an escape into freedom.  
  
He managed to open his eyes just in time, so he could carry a glimpse of green with him into the golden moment.  
  
*  
  
Lying draped over Draco, feeling his lover breathe hoarsely and deeply beneath him, his fingers shaking with fine tremors and his back and hips complaining at him, his mind still stupefied by what they had just shared, Harry was utterly sure that this was where he wanted to be for the rest of his life.  
  
*  
  
The morning brought a letter for Harry. Draco was trying to make sure James didn’t throw any food at Al and Scorpius, while Teddy bolted down his own breakfast and bounced out the door to ride his broom in the gardens. His mother sat nearby, cradling Harry’s daughter in her arms and cooing at her. Draco smirked. Lily would grow up as polished and correct, and as thoroughly spoiled, as any Malfoy daughter in the last two hundred years, he knew.  
  
Not that he wouldn’t be doing his fair share of the spoiling himself, so perhaps he shouldn’t feel so superior, but it was the  _principle_  of the thing.  
  
When the barn owl alighted on the table in front of Harry, Harry’s brow furrowed and he reached out hesitantly. He was quick enough, though, to catch James’s wrist just as he was about to stick a sausage in his little brother’s ear. James drew back his hand and pouted. Draco shook his head. He had managed to learn, by now, that he’d been intimately engaged in James’s rearing from the beginning, and yet the boy was still incredibly rude. Either he had an irrepressible spirit, or it was the Weasley in him coming through. Draco knew which explanation he preferred to believe.  
  
“It’s from Hermione,” Harry said, with a tightness in his voice that Draco knew he was the only one at the table to understand. Narcissa looked up with a slight frown. Al leaned over to whisper something to Scorpius, who giggled. James promptly tried to snatch the letter.  
  
“She’s writing to  _me_!” he said. “Aunt Hermione is writing to  _me_!”  
  
Harry casually batted his son’s hand away—it made no difference what they did to James, Draco had already seen; he would just sulk and pout and try again later—and opened the letter. He scanned the first few lines and nodded to himself. Then he tucked the letter into his robe pocket and went back to helping the children put more food into their stomachs than in their hair.  
  
Draco smiled slightly, proud of him. Harry must be dying to read the letter and learn more details about how his career and relationship with his friends here was different than in their original world, but his commitment to their family came first.  
  
The fact that he probably also wanted Draco with him when he read the letter was likely, but Draco had already learned that Harry rarely did things for selfish motives alone, even when he was  _trying_  to.  
  
*  
  
Harry glanced sideways at Draco, who had sat on the couch beside him in the library. Draco smiled and leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder, at an angle that would permit him to read the letter while giving him the maximum amount of comfort. Harry snorted and turned his attention to Hermione’s neat handwriting.  
  
 _Dear Harry:  
  
Of course I believe you lost some of your memories in a magical experiment. You should really stop letting Draco use you for a test subject. His field is_ abstract  _magical theory, remember? He doesn’t need to put every theory into practical use._  
  
“I thought so,” Draco murmured, sounding pleased. “The number of books on magical theory in the library said so. Apparently I’m trying to learn exactly where magic comes from, and why it marks some Muggles out as Mu—“  
  
Harry coughed.  
  
“Muggleborns.” Draco pushed him in the side with an elbow. “I would have said that.”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes and looked back at the letter.   
  
 _You’ve worked in the Auror Department for the past ten years, minus the times that you’ve taken off to pamper Draco when his feelings were hurt or to go on mad holidays with Draco or to care for the children when Draco’s help wasn’t enough._  
  
“I wonder,” Draco said brightly, “does she blame me for a great deal of what goes wrong in your life, do you think?”  
  
 _Your partner was Ron for seven years, but he’s taken up more responsibility for our children in the past three, so since then you’ve been partnered with Ares Stevenson._  
  
Harry made a sharp noise of surprise, and Draco lifted his head to blink at him. “Is that good or bad?” he asked.  
  
“Good.” Harry shook his head, marveling. Ares Stevenson was a pure-blood who, thanks to a remarkably liberal upbringing—his parents had eloped against  _their_  parents’ wishes and raised their son primarily on various ships and the road until it was time for Hogwarts—had sympathized and helped with most of the Blood Reparations work back in their original world. Harry couldn’t imagine he would be much different here. There seemed to be a limit to how much the life-debts would let this secondary world vary from its original, since Julia  _had_  said only their last ten years of history were different. “It would be hard for me to find a better partner, in fact.”  
  
Hermione’s letter continued,  _And while I don’t think that I’ll ever become quite reconciled to your dating a Malfoy, I know better by now than to think he’s going anywhere._  
  
“Even the brightest must admit defeat around me,” Draco murmured smugly.  
  
Harry shoved him again.  
  
 _Your arrangement with Ginny that produced your children is your own business, and I’ve never pretended to understand that, either, but you both seem happy, so why should I concern myself with it?_  
  
Draco frowned this time. “Are you  _certain_  it’s Granger writing this letter?”  
  
“I don’t think she’s hardened quite as much in this world,” Harry said quietly. “At least, not to me. If I stood up to her earlier, she’s probably had time to accept it.”  
  
 _Molly is still eager to see you, especially since George died in that Auror raid gone wrong in Diagon Alley a few months ago. She knows you tried your hardest to save him, but he was just too far gone even before they got him to hospital._  
  
Harry swallowed. Well, it had been too much to hope, really, that George would still be alive in this world.  
  
Draco’s hand found his shoulder and gently squeezed.  
  
 _And before I tell you anything else, I want to see you, damn it. It’s been too long. Come over to our house tomorrow. I’ll owl you Floo instructions if you need_  them,  _too.  
  
Love,  
Hermione._  
  
Harry folded the letter slowly.  
  
“This will be risky, you know,” Draco muttered. “We still stand a chance of being caught out, since we don’t remember everything. And it will be hard to adjust to these lives outside the areas covered by the dreams.” He hesitated, then added, “That would be a legitimate reason to prefer our old lives over these.”  
  
Harry turned to him. Draco looked a bit disdainful, but he had tried to be sensitive to Harry’s feelings, and Harry appreciated the gesture.  
  
He leaned in to kiss Draco, long and slow, and then sat back and said softly, “This solution isn’t  _perfect_. But I didn’t expect anything to be. And I’m so much happier here—“ He shook his head. “It’s hard to  _recognize_  as happiness. I keep expecting to fetch up against one of the things I was unhappy about in the first world and not finding it. I’ll never regret what we have. No, I don’t want to go back.”  
  
This time, it was Draco who dragged him down on the couch, and James who banged on the door and shrieked an interruption. Harry laughed as Draco sat up and pushed his disheveled hair back with a soft curse.  
  
“There’ll be other times,” he said.  
  
Draco’s gaze suddenly sharpened, and Harry felt as if someone had plunged a sword through his body and transfixed his heart.  
  
“Yes,” Draco said. “As many as we can bear.”  
  
He took Harry’s hand and kissed the knuckles, causing James, who burst in a moment later, to wrinkle his nose and proclaim kissing “ew.” Harry laughed, but his eyes were on Draco’s, returning the piercing gaze, and the sentiment behind it.  
  
 _It doesn’t matter how much we had to fight to have this life. We have it now, and any future struggles will be easier than what we’ve gone through already, because we’re together._  
  
This is our time.


	44. Epilogue

“Come  _on_ , Al.”  
  
Harry hid a smile behind his hand. Despite James’s tone of voice, he was Levitating his little brother’s trunk with an expression of extreme patience. Harry couldn’t be sure that James would ever be as calm and polite as Al was—there was a reason his eldest son was in Gryffindor, after all—but he had certainly improved from the spoiled bully he had once seemed set to grow into.  
  
 _Or maybe it’s just that he’s been at Hogwarts one year already and is enjoying the chance to play tour guide_ , Harry thought, as he listened to James telling Al about the Sorting and how he mustn’t expect to have a parent nearby every time he got into trouble. Al nodded, absorbing some of it and rejecting the rest. It helped, Harry thought, that he had Scorpius beside him, who tended to squeeze his hand every time James lied outrageously.  
  
Arms slipped around Harry’s waist. He leaned briefly back into Draco’s embrace and squeezed his lover’s hand the way Scorpius was doing for Al.  
  
“I thought it would be easier the third time,” Draco muttered into his ear. “It isn’t.”  
  
Harry chuckled and turned his head to steal a kiss. “There was too long a break between James and Teddy,” he said, when they came up for air. “If they’d gone one after another, we’d be old hands at this by now.”  
  
“No, you wouldn’t,” said Lily, who was walking behind them at a sedate pace. Narcissa followed her, keeping one eye on her granddaughter so that Lily wouldn’t get dirt on her new, formal blue robes. Harry thought it highly unlikely that she would anyway. Narcissa had raised Lily “properly,” which meant Lily tended to wash her hands obsessively after touching a post-owl and come out of mock duels with her brothers lacking any wrinkle in her clothing. But Narcissa hadn’t counteracted, or maybe she had encouraged, a perceptiveness and directness that Harry thought made his daughter a sure candidate for Gryffindor House when it was her turn to board the Hogwarts Express. She eyed him now and said calmly, “You’ll always mourn when one of us leaves home, because you love us so much.” She turned her head towards Narcissa. “They’ll be wrecks when we get married, won’t they?”  
  
“I prefer to think of that day as occurring a long time from now, dear,” Narcissa said, with a fastidious little shudder.  
  
Draco rolled his eyes and drew Harry along faster, until they were halfway between the boys and the women of the family. “We’ll have to make sure to keep her entertained,” he said in a low voice to Harry. “Otherwise, our sons are likely to come home and find that she’s terrified us into obedience.”  
  
“She’s not that bad,” Harry said automatically.  
  
“Harry, she’s a demon in human form.”  
  
Harry laughed under his breath. He was sure Hermione or Ron would have heard fervent disdain for Lily in Draco’s voice. But Harry, after nine years—or nineteen, depending on which view one took—of constant and close companionship, could hear the affection breathing, guarded, under the surface. Draco simply didn’t see why he should express himself openly around strangers.  
  
“Harry!”  
  
Ron’s voice called from the other side of the platform. Harry turned his head, searching, and then waved as he caught a glimpse of Ron and Hermione herding Rose forwards. Hugo strolled along behind them, hands in his robe pockets, his face moody. Harry made a mental note to offer to take Hugo to Flourish and Blotts when they went back to Diagon Alley. Ron’s son had never become reconciled to the fact that his sister was older than he was and therefore would be attending Hogwarts first.  
  
“Rose!” Scorpius yelled. “Catch!” His hand flashed out, tossing a practice Snitch in her direction.   
  
Unsurprisingly, Rose snatched the little golden ball out of the air without half trying and gave Scorpius a superior look. She and Scorpius had an interest in Quidditch unmatched by the rest of the children. James preferred pranks and hanging out with his friends; Al preferred books; Hugo had already taken a shine to experimental magic of the kind his uncles had used to create Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Lily did a great number of things perfectly, but Harry suspected her main interest was world domination.  
  
“You’ll have to do better than that if you want a place on the Slytherin team as Seeker,” Rose said now.  
  
Ron rolled his eyes and gave Harry a long-suffering look, the same one he used whenever his daughter talked about being in Slytherin House. Harry just looked back unsympathetically. One of his sons was certain to end up there, Scorpius if not Al. And if Lily didn’t become a Gryffindor, Slytherin was the House for her.  
  
“They’ll all be so impressed with me that they won’t look twice at  _you_ ,” Scorpius was telling Rose. “I can ride a broom faster than you can any day.”  
  
“There’s the little matter of staying on it,” Rose said smugly, referring to an period earlier in the summer where Scorpius seemed to have fallen off his broom every time Harry and Draco’s family saw Ron and Hermione’s. Predictably, Scorpius’s ears turned pink, and he began some scathing retort.  
  
Harry didn’t listen to it. Draco had tapped his shoulder and was murmuring, “Look there.”  
  
Harry glanced up. Opposite him and Draco stood a very large wizarding family Harry didn’t recognize. The parents were gathered around what looked like triplet witches, hugging them tearfully and making them promise to write; their daughters looked torn between tears of their own and fearsome embarrassment.  
  
But the important thing was the conjured mirror—for what purpose the family had brought it Harry didn’t know—hovering behind the photograph-snapping grandfather. The surface started to boil with shadows, just from the one glance.  
  
“Shall we?” Draco asked, his hand tightening on Harry’s shoulder.  
  
Harry hesitated for a long moment. It had been years since he and Draco had looked into the other world through the mirrors. For one thing, it was too depressing for Harry to watch what his own cowardice had wrought—his other self falling steadily back in love with Ginny, reconciling to her by forgetting what she had done rather than forgiving her, and persuading himself that his brief love affair with that Draco had been a deadly mistake.  
  
But now…  
  
He did want to know what that other Harry looked like on the morning of letting one of his children go to Hogwarts. He and Draco hadn’t bothered to look when they saw Teddy or James off.  
  
“Just for a moment,” he said, and he joined hands with his lover and leaned forwards, staring intently.  
  
*  
  
Draco saw it all.  
  
He saw the way the Harry of the other world—who looked under considerably more strain and stress than  _his_  lover—hovered near his children, staring intently and protectively at a quietly terrified Al, but ignoring his wife. There was no physical contact between them, no gentle touches. It was the same situation as the last time Draco and Harry had looked into the mirror, three years ago. Harry had confessed to finding his double’s imperfect relationship with Ginny extremely sad. Draco thought it was all that the reckless idiot of the mirror world deserved.  
  
He saw the moment when the steam cleared and that Harry caught sight of his other self.  
  
Draco felt a surge of quiet but fierce pride when he saw the expression in the eyes of that Draco. Standing beside Marian and a Scorpius who obviously had no memory of Al’s friendship, he stared at Harry for a moment, then jerked his head down into a curt nod. Then he turned away.  
  
The reflected Harry kept staring. The angle of the mirror didn’t allow Draco to be certain about the expression in his eyes. It could have been regret, desire, or fear. He could have curled his lip or been ready to spring across the platform and catch the other Draco’s hand between his.  
  
But he didn’t offer any acknowledgement of the nod he’d got. Instead, he turned away and continued to speak with his friends and his children, the people he’d chosen to share his life with.  
  
Shadows covered the images. Harry must have stopped concentrating. Draco glanced down at him to find his face transfixed in an expression of disgust and consternation.  
  
“All right?” Draco whispered.  
  
“That  _idiot_ ,” Harry said. “The unmitigated  _prat_. Of all the ways it could have gone. Of all the choices he could have made.” He shook his head and turned sharply away, striding the few steps that still separated them from Al and Scorpius. He knelt down to fuss with their sons’ robes, answering a few of Al’s questions. Draco was sure they were about the size of the library at Hogwarts. The boy would make a fine Ravenclaw—if the Hat could persuade him to be Sorted separately from Scorpius, at least.  
  
Draco glanced back one more time at the mirror. He would have been more inclined to place the blame on Ginny Potter. But he could see Harry’s point. It was the way that other Harry had hidden from reality that created the rift between him and the mirror world’s Draco. They could at least have remained friends. They could have continued meeting in dreams as lovers. But the second Harry had chosen, and chosen not wisely but thoroughly, and this was the result.  
  
 _Strange, that in that world it was Harry’s choice which decided it all, and in this one it was both of ours._  
  
Of course, to Draco, that was just another sign that their new world was better than the one they’d come from, and that the life-debts knew what they were doing when they arranged for him and Harry to be bound together.  
  
“Dad!”  
  
Scorpius’s imperious voice summoned him from ahead. Draco smiled and lengthened his stride. Scorpius probably wanted to demand one more recital of the List for Survival in Slytherin.  
  
Harry glanced up at him. His left hand rested lightly on Al’s shoulder, and Al still had hold of Scorpius’s wrist. As Draco came up, he had to find places for both Harry’s and Scorpius’s hands, and then the four of them were bound into a tightly joined circle.  
  
To Draco, it was appropriate. His and Harry’s first connection had come about through Scorpius, and then through the friendship of their sons.   
  
From the way Harry caught his eye, he was thinking the same thing.  
  
Draco gave a smile that he knew was thoroughly self-satisfied, and began to recite the well-worn advice that Scorpius, Rose, and maybe even Al could use—but quickly, because they had a train to catch.  
  
 _ **Finite.**_


End file.
